


Ashes Denote

by JustGettingBy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiverse, Quick transmigration, Spirit Shenanigans, Transmigration, Trapped in another world, if that's a thing??, universe jumping, universe swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: A mishap in the Spirit World sends Sokka jumping worlds.He finds Zuko every time.A gust of violent wind rattles them. Dry snow, like dust and stars, swirls in an eddy around Sokka’s head.“Sokka!” The wind swallows most of Aang’s voice. He must be shouting, but it sounds more like a whisperSokka pushes his hands in front of him, as if he could somehow drive away the storm of spirits.He can’t, of course.The light floods across his world and crashes over him and drags him down, down to the bottom of a place that he can only think of as the ocean. But it’s not; it can’t be.Here, Sokka floats.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 331
Kudos: 599
Collections: A:tla





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long it's going to be, but probably on the shorter side? 20k max I think. But this is one of those ideas that just grabbed me and said 'write me or else'. So I did. 
> 
> (also ps if anyone knows what tag to use for the 'characters from the main universe get sent to an alternate universe pls let me know and I'll be grateful forever)
> 
> Also there's some heavy Priory of the Orange Tree influence in this chapter.

It starts, for Sokka, like most things do: with an ignorant comment. 

“What?” he says. “I just don’t see the big deal.”

It’s not that he doesn’t believe Aang when he says there’s a rip in the Spirit World—not entirely. He just doesn’t see the big deal when it comes to all this other-worldly stuff. This is probably unfair at this point, but Sokka doesn’t really care. Aang is the Avatar; he has to believe in it all. And then there’s Katara, who still hangs on too tightly to the fancies of Aunt Wu. 

It’s a nice thought, Sokka supposes, that one could divine the future through the curled leaves of tea, sinking in the bottom of a porcelain cup. Or one could look at the whisps around the edges of clouds, gauzy and white against the summer blue sky, and know what the sunrise would bring the next morning. 

It’s a nice thought. 

It’s not true. 

If the future was that knowable, that easy, where would the adventure be in life? If the spirits meddled in the human realm, then how could he ever trust what was in front of him? No—Sokka rellies on his eyes; on the touch of the world under his calloused fingers. On the smell of smoke and ash that fills his nose and the honey-sweet pastries on his tongue. This is how he knows the world. This is how it comes into being, he thinks. 

The only one of his friends who agrees with his sentiment is Zuko. Aang and Katara and even Suki pay too much heed to the spirits and fortunes. And Toph...well, Toph knows what she feels what vibrates under her feet, what twists in her gut. 

Once, Sokka thought it was the same. 

Tight-lipped, Toph told him otherwise. “It’s more instinctual,” she argued. “If I can’t trust myself, who can I trust?” 

And that’s what it comes down to. Toph trusts herself. Sokka trusts his senses. It’s close. It’s not the same. 

The only ally—true ally—he has in his worldview is Zuko. Zuko who pays heed to the spirits (Sokka doesn’t have to do much sleuthing to know what little reverence he has comes from Iroh), but looks at the world in front of him and sees it as it is. Zuko, who slows down his heart when he meditates and trains with his Dao and takes in the world as it is, not as what he wishes it would be. 

All this is to say that Sokka wishes Zuko was there with them when Aang takes him to the tear in the Spirit World that’s shown up in the South Pole, the strange and murky place deep in the southern wild. 

Zuko could’ve offered another voice of dissent. 

Instead, Aang only stands there in robes too light for the deep heart of winter and smiles. “Sokka, this is special. I’m telling you.”

Sokka eyes it. Deep reds and purples and greens snake together, winding their way in around the air in an arc. The air, here, hums the way that Sokka’s heard it does before a lightning strike. On the back of his neck, his hair prickles.

He wishes that Katara was here, not in the North working with healers. And, again, he wishes Zuko was here, not sweltering on his throne in the heat of the Fire Nation, with royal advisors peering down his neck and watching his every move. 

Sokka swallows. It’s been only a month since he last saw Zuko. Would he be different when they met again? Would he be taller once again? His sleek dark hair would be longer, that was a certainty. It might graze below his collar bones by then. 

Would he be betrothed? 

Sokka tries to push that question out of his mind, but it proves much too alike his boomerang than he’d hoped. The day before Sokka left the Fire Nation, he and Zuko donned matching dark cloaks and wandered through the streets of Caldera City. Overhead, paper lanterns cast warm, soft colours on the line of Zuko’s nose that stuck out from under his hood as they wandered through the rows of market stalls that smelled of fried noodles and warm, buttery desserts. Vendors called; they pretended not to have the coin for any indulgences. In the distance, cricket-flies chirped. The moon that night hung like a lantern: low and bright. 

And with the warmth of laughter still clouding his head, Zuko had pulled him into the gardens before they returned to their rooms. The wind that drifted between them smelled of flowers and fires. 

“They want me to get married,” Zuko whispered. “There’s rumblings of dissent coming from Crescent Island. The Sages need me to have an heir. Secure the line.”

He looked up at the smattering of stars, his neck a soft curve. “The _nation_ needs me to get married.” 

“Oh.” Sokka plucked up a handful of grass and let the wind steal it away. 

“Yeah.” Zuko pulled his knees into his chest and looked ahead. “They gave me until my 21st birthday until they decide for me.”

Sokka let out a breath. Had they really aged so much? The war felt both forever ago and too close all at once. His 21st birthday. Six months away.

Well, five now. 

Sokka shudders, both from the icy wind and the thought. When he opens his eyes, the colours dancing around the rip in the spirit world flood his vision. The bright colours blanch the world; they drown out the first-tipped trees surround it. 

Aang shoots Sokka a look. “Okay,” he says, his voice wavering. “I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”

Sokka rolls his eyes. “You’re the Avatar, can’t you fix it?”

“I don’t know everything!”

A gust of violent wind rattles them. Dry snow, like dust and stars, swirls in an eddy around Sokka’s head. 

“Sokka!” The wind swallows most of Aang’s voice. He must be shouting, but it sounds more like a whisper 

Sokka pushes his hands in front of him, as if he could somehow drive away the storm of spirits.

He can’t, of course. 

The light floods across his world and crashes over him and drags him down, down to the bottom of a place that he can only think of as the ocean. But it’s not; it can’t be. 

Here, Sokka floats. 

His mind drifts back to days on Ember Island, playing in the tropical water, letting the sun warm his face. He thinks of Aang, sending a dart of air to dry his hair all crooked. He thinks of Katara, soaking him to the bone again a moment later. He thinks of Suki and Toph, laughing away. 

He thinks of Zuko. 

And, with that, the wave washes away, pulling back out quick and violent and leaving Sokka stranded. His mind riots in response. 

* * *

There’s salt on his lips and sun in his eyes. In the South, the sun they get only ever feels this hot in the summer. In the winter, it may be bright, but it never holds heat. 

A harsh voice fills his ears, yelling in some language he doesn’t understand. A hand clenches around his arm in a painful vice and hauls him out of the water. 

Sokka’s too weak to stand; he buckles under his own weight. 

A rock meets his ribs and he wheezes in pain, coughing up saltwater and phlegm. 

And a wave washes over him, once again. It’s real this time, Sokka thinks, as he struggles to open his eyes. His head pulses and the world is too bright when he cracks open his eyelids.

“Aang,” he mumbles. Where is he? He was there, only a moment ago. 

And the hand hauls him up, once more. Vaguely, Sokka realizes that there’s sand under his feet, which are now bare. 

Only a moment ago, he was wearing five layers of thick furs. He wouldn’t last a moment without them. He’s certainly not wearing that now. 

He opens his eyes and embraces the searing light.

Slowly, the world sharpens to a focus. 

He’s on a beach. Palms hang low not ten feet in front of him. Waves lick his calves. The world might be brighter than he’d like, but the sun is low, sinking into the ocean. 

And a man with a pale face stares at him, his face wrought with concern. Judging from the amber of his eyes, he’s likely Fire Nation. 

The man says something in the same sharp language. He helps Sokka to his feet.

Sokka stumbles as the crash of another wave beats against his legs. Sand sticks to his arms, his head, his hair. 

He eyes the man, too. Accepting help from a stranger is always a gamble. But he doesn’t have the strength to persist, not now. If the man hadn’t lifted him up, Sokka isn’t sure how he would’ve pulled himself out of the surf. “What happened?” His voice is dry, grating and broken. 

The man’s eyes widen at Sokka. “Come on,” he says, this time in a tongue that Sokka knows. 

But even though the language may be a comfort, it’s the only thing that is. Everything about this man seems as if he’s touched a bolt of lightning, from his choppy hair to his split lip to his angular joints that poke out against his robe. 

Sokka looks down at himself. He’s clad only in tattered breeches and a grey tunic, clothing which he has never seen before in his life. At least it’s a touch more fighting for the weather. Cool beads of water still cling to Sokka’s skin, too. He’s thankful for it. Without it, he’d be boiling in his own head—which is already sore enough. 

The man gives Sokka another rough tug, but he doesn’t seem to have malintent. No. He seems desperate. Wild, like an animal. “You can’t stay here.”

Sokka’s world tilts as he drags his feet through the wet sand. “Where am I?”

The man frowns, deep lines cracking his skin. He’s older than Sokka thought, even if he does have wiry muscles. Pieces of grey steak his hair and his hands are dotted with sunspots. “Somewhere you shouldn’t be,” he finally says and jerks Sokka’s arm once again. “Now come on.”

Sokka, against all his stubborn instinct, listens. He follows the man up the beach, through the thicket of palms and ferns, and down a path of soft, damp earth. His feet must be black on their soles. 

His stomach tinges too. He given anything for water and a slice of bread. How had this happened? How long had he been out? Before Aang took him to see the rip, they’d shared lunch. Instead, it feels like he’s neither eaten nor drank in days.

Finally, the man pulls him around a bend. Nestled in the greenery of the rainforest, a small house with bamboo walls and a thatched roof rest on a pair of stilts. 

“Come,” the man says firmly. “Up the stairs.” 

Sokka follows. His legs burn; his muscles quake as if he’d tried to lift the earth. 

The man pauses in front of the wooden door. “You can stay the night,” the man says, his voice still as stone. “At first light, you leave. You were never here.”

Sokka’s mind still reels as he plays catch up. “I don’t understand.”

The man shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But _where_ is here?” Sokka pleads once again. 

“You really don’t know?”

Sokka shakes his head. “No.” The admission feels like defeat. 

“You’re in the Fire Nation, of course.” 

Finally, Sokka feels like he can exhale. Like the tightness in his whole body sinks out with his breath. 

The man fumbles with a key. “Now come on, before the guards see.” 

And, again, the tightness is back. In no part of the Fire Nation did Sokka ever think there were guards that would be so concerned over a matter like this. “Why would they care?”

The man lets out a dry laugh. “Because, boy, no outsider has stepped foot in the Fire Nation in nearly twenty years. I don’t think they’re about to start now.” 

Sokka’s blood turns to ice. “No,” he whispers. 

Because it can't be. The man has to be mistaken. 

But Sokka saw the panic in his eyes. He sees the way the man moves, even now, all twitchy and flighty and paranoid. 

If he wishes Sokka any harm, he would've just left him in the wake on the beach. The ocean would've done any dirty work for him. 

"Here," the man says as he pushes open the door to his home. 

The inside is much like the outside, all wooden and open. A light ocean breeze drifts through and the decorative scroll on the wall sways in the air. In another moment, it could be lovely. 

But Sokka only sees the shadows. 

The man pulls the door shut behind Sokka with a snap. He draws the shades of the large windows closed; only stray beams of light still filter in. 

“You can wash and sleep here. But you’re gone in the morning. And you were never here.”

Sokka nods, numb. 

“I’m Natsu, by the way.”

“Sokka.” 

Natsu busies himself at a cupboard. A moment later, he thrusts a fresh, untattered set of red robes into Sokka’s hands. “You’ll need all the help blending in you can get.” 

Sokka looks down at himself. He doesn’t fit in here; even with Zuko, he’s always been hyper-aware of the fact he doesn’t fit in here.

He swallows the bile in his throat. “Why are you helping me?”

Natsu lifts an eyebrow. “Would you have preferred it if I let you drown?”

Sokka quiets. 

“You needed help. I couldn’t keep fishing as if nothing was wrong.”

Sokka nods. As much as he’s learned to be cautious around strangers over the years, he’s also learned the world is full of good people, too. People who help, without expecting anything in return. People who want a better world, a better future. 

“I don’t want to bring trouble,” Sokka says. But, he knows, he already has.

* * *

The chill and darkness of night come quickly, but they aren't quiet. Wind rustles the world. Small chirps of animals sound occasionally. And, if Sokka listens carefully, he can hear waves break on the shore. 

Sokka rests on a cot under the window, the air ruffling his hair. Through the slates in the shades, he can make out the shadows of the palms and lines of the rainforest. And the moon hangs in the distance, the way she always does. 

He’s lost, here, wherever here is. It’s not the Fire Nation he knows. Not that he truly knows that much about it. 

But he’s certain there’s nowhere that’s been sealed away for twenty years. Zuko would’ve told him. 

For now, Sokka turns and pulls the rough blanket up to his chin. It’s the spirits, he begrudgingly admits. It must be. There’s no other way to explain why he’s here. 

At least he’s had water and food. He’s washed the salt and sand off his body and changed into untattered clothing. And, just after dawn breaks, he’ll leave. He can figure it out from there; he’s too exhausted to figure it out now. 

* * *

Before the light of dawn breaks open the day, the guards come all the same. 

Rough hands haul Sokka out of the cot. Someone shoves a blindfold over his eyes. Someone ties a length of rope—all rough and scratchy and not at all high quality—around his wrists. The world blends into a cacophony of shouts and shattering glass. 

Once he’s outside, a hand pushes Sokka; he bumps up against a piece of wood. A cart? It must be—that’s how they transport prisoners here. Words in that same, sharp language Natsu had spoken the day before prick his ears. 

A door slams and an ostrich-horse brays and Sokka bustles against the side of the cart. 

Silently, he swears. His heart threatens to crawl out of his throat. Everything about this world is wrong, so wrong. 

But through the thick haze in his mind, one thought cuts through: he never thanked Natsu for what he did. 

And now he doubts he ever will. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASHES denote that fire was;  
> Respect the grayest pile  
> For the departed creature’s sake  
> That hovered there awhile.
> 
> Fire exists the first in light,   
> And then consolidates,—  
> Only the chemist can disclose  
> Into what carbonates.
> 
> \- Emily Dickinson


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m having so much fun writing this 👀
> 
> (sorry about the repost, my computer is glitchy and I posted the wrong version)

Sokka doesn’t know how long he travels for. It’s impossible to tell, especially with his eyes covered. It also doesn’t help that he’s locked away in some cart; he might’ve been able to judge the passing of time by the feeling of the sun on his face. 

But he has no such luxury. His arms ache through his shoulders. The rough rope around his wrists is rubbing his skin raw. Katara might be the much more accomplished healer out of the two of them, but Sokka’s gleaned enough knowledge from watching her work that he knows he’ll have to get them clean, at some point, or the wounds could get infected. But the way that the guards are treating him, he doubts they’ll rush to get him water and bandages. 

He sighs and sinks into himself. What happened? What was that burst of light? As much as Sokka would prefer to stay out of the complications of the Spirit World, it keeps dragging him back in. 

But he can’t be in the Spirit World. He can’t. 

Back when he’d first started travelling with Aang, the bear had spirited him away. That memory is murky, a thick haze of impossible things. But, from what he remembers, the Spirit World was not like this one. The Spirit World had coloured trees and red hues in the sky, and strange, animal-like creatures that moved through the thicket like spectres. 

Here, there are none of those things. The sky is blue. The ground is solid. He’d eaten and drank. And they did have bathrooms, so he can cross this place off the lists as being part of the Spirit World. 

Somehow, Sokka feels worse about that. 

If he were in the Spirit World, as frustrating as that might be, at least he could count on Aang to find him. But here? He doesn’t know where he is. How will Aang be able to find him?

How will he get home?

* * *

They stop, eventually. 

The guards shout at him and Sokka still doesn’t understand. Someone holds a water skin to his lips and he drinks greedily, letting the water spill down his chin and drip onto his tunic. Everything that Mom and Dad and Gran-Gran have taught him suggests that he should be embarrassed about this, but he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t know when he’ll get to drink again. 

But before Sokka has a chance to rest, they’re moving again. The way he jostles against the cart is uncomfortable. It strains his already sore body. At least he’s not walking, he thinks. He’s heard stories of cruel captors who’d tie their prisoners up and force them to walk alongside the ostrich-horses or be dragged through the dirt. The thought of that sends another cool chill up his spine. 

But as haunting as that thought is, it doesn’t answer the bigger question: where are they taking him? 

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. The smell of salt and fish floods his nose an hour later. From the shouts, the noise he can make out, he guesses he must be at a dock.

A few moments later, the cart stops again. 

And he’s hauled to his feet, his legs aching from being bent up for so long, and his knees crack as he starts to stretch. 

“Walk,” some guard barks at him. They can communicate that much, apparently. 

And Sokka’s not one to disobey. He marches onward, up an incline. And a hand grabs his upper bicep, guiding him forward. It must be a ship, Sokka thinks. He feels the world shift under his feet. A gentle sway. The world is a blur; it's hard to know anything about where he’s at. Without his vision to balance him, his stomach lurches with the motion and the steps he takes are small and uncertain. 

But he doesn’t have to worry long—he’s out of the sun in a few steps. Pushed down again. He meets the hard wood of the floor with a groan, his side blooming in pain. 

And, before long, his whole rocks with waves. Not the gentle push of a boat at the dock. A wild and uncertain ride, lolling from side to side. 

“Shit,” Sokka groans. He sinks back against his arms, which are still bound painfully tight. Like this, there’s no way to get comfortable. Any way he tries to lie down, his hands either dig into his back or his shoulders bump out. Pins and needles radiate upward. 

It’s going to be a long ride. 

* * *

  
  


It goes on like that for a day. Maybe more. Maybe less. Sokka doesn’t know, not really. Everything is muddled and confusing and wrong. 

Someone brings him water. He still hasn’t eaten. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Or where he left from.

Without that information, it’s much more difficult to plot his escape. 

But he will. Sokka swears by that. He’s nothing if not resourceful. And, he has to count on the fact that Aang’s looking for him, too. That doubles his chances of getting out of here. 

Eventually, someone comes for him again. Sokka’s exhausted, rung out and tired. 

The guard takes him from the boat to land. The sun overhead is hot and heavy; Sokka’s sweating nearly instantly. As he marches along where they guide him, another realization sinks into his gut. Here, the air carries the same ocean scents that he’d expect. But there’s something else, underneath. And it grows strong as he marches further and further. 

Under the salt and seaweed, the unmistakable scent of sulphur burns his nose. 

When the guard yanks away his blindfold, Sokka’s fear is confirmed. 

They’ve taken him to Boiling Rock. 

* * *

They untie his hands and give him a cell and food and water, which is better than nothing, Sokka supposes. He sits on the hard cot and pulls his knees in. How did he end up here? 

Still. The din of the light makes the room glow red. It’s as if the whole cell is made out of rust. But he’s gotten out of here once. He can do it again. 

Even without Zuko and Suki and his dad, Sokka knows he can figure something out. When they release him into the yard, he can make alliances. There must be dozens of others who would give anything to escape, Sokka just needs to find them. Quietly. If he learned anything from last time, it’s to not discuss prison escape plans loudly in public areas. Not that there are many opportunities for private gatherings, but still. He won’t make the same mistakes as last time. 

He has a chance again. 

Sokka’s deep in thought, picking at a loose thread on the rough blanket when he hears the lock on the cell turn. He straightens up, as if someone yanked an invisible string attached to his head. He won’t show fear. He’s Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe; he’ll face this head-on. 

A man walks in wearing full military regalia. The style is different than the one Sokka is used to, but the effect is clear: this man is important. Judging from his gilded armour, he’s high ranking. So not a prison guard, then. Someone else. 

His face looks vaguely familiar, but Sokka can’t place it. Maybe he’d passed him before in the halls of the palace while he was visiting Zuko. But the man isn’t high ranking back at home; Sokka would know his face, otherwise. 

He strains to place him. He’s tall, around Sokka’s height, and lanky too. His long face matches his stretched out body. His warm brown eyes, while hardened, are not unkind and his long hair pulled into a top knot is a similar shade of brown. 

_Where have I seen him before?_ He can’t be much more than thirty, which also narrows the list considerably. 

But Sokka can’t worry about this now. And it’s not like he won’t have time to search his memories. 

“You’re not Fire Nation,” the man says. 

Sokka resists the urge to laugh. “Clearly.”

“Why are you here?” He’s straight to the point, but Sokka supposes that’s somewhat natural for an interrogation. 

“I didn’t mean to be,” he says. “I’m lost. I’m just trying to get home.”

“Which is where?” His words are sharp around the edges, steeped in the accent of the other tongue Sokka’s heard. 

“The Southern Water Tribe.” Sokka crosses his arms. He’s clearly Water Tribe with his blue eyes and dark skin and wolf’s tail. There would be no point denying that. But a part of him wonders if he should’ve lied, if he should’ve pretended to be from the North. 

“Hm.” The man studies Sokka with his eyes, with a precise and calculating gaze. “How’d you get here?”

Sokka considered lying again. He could say he was shipwrecked. That would be the easiest and most believable answer. Instead, inexplicably, he looks the man dead in the eyes and says: “the spirits brought me here.”

The man’s nostrils flare. “If that’s how it’s going to be, there’s no point continuing this conversation.” He turns on his heel and knocks on the door. The gear of the lock turns and the door slides open. 

Before he steps out, he glances back over his shoulder. “That might work on my father, but not on me. Let the guards know when you’re ready to talk.” 

He steps into the hall, and another guard comes up to flank his side. He says something in the other language—loud and clear with a harsh laugh at the end. 

Sokka still can’t understand. 

But as the guard opens his mouth again, and lets another phrase stream loose, Sokka catches a clip of something that he does understand. 

Names don’t change from language to language. 

And that name rings clear in his head.

The man who’d just interrogated him was Lu Ten. 

* * *

The problem with Sokka’s plan of escape is that it requires him to mix with the rest of the prisoners. Which so far he hasn’t. 

He’s heard the voices outside his cell. Through the small and slatted window, he’s seen the sun rise and fall. They’ve left him meals and water and Sokka’s passed the time doing every pushup and situp he could think of. 

But no one comes for him.

They don’t believe him. 

Which isn’t a stretch of the imagination, he guesses. What proof does he have that he’s been spirit touched? 

Sokka rubs his hand over his face. He raps on his cell door and tells the guards that he’s ready to talk. 

He can try again. He’ll have to find an angle. Whatever he does, he can’t stay here. It’ll be the death of him, quite literally. 

* * *

Lu Ten comes back the next day. 

Sokka takes this as a win. Members of the royal family wouldn’t be so willing to listen to prisoners unless they had a vested interest in them. They’re curious about him. Sokka can play that to his advantage. 

“Are you ready to tell the truth?” Lu Ten asks, his voice level. He does a good job of not showing emotion. Sokka can’t say he’d do the same if the roles were switched. 

Instead of answering, Sokka tilts his head. “How about we do question for question?”

His lips flatten into a line. “That’s not how this works.”

Sokka lifts his eyebrow. “Not usually.” But Lu Ten is here, probably at an inconvenience to himself. And his plans. Sokka can’t imagine that anyone of his ranking wants to hang around such a grim and soul-sucking place. 

After a beat, Lu Ten softens. “Fine,” he says. “Within reason. Are you ready to tell the truth?”

 _Within reason._ “Yes.” Sokka clears his throat. He’ll have to pick his questions carefully, he won’t have forever. “Are you the Crown Prince?”

If Lu Ten is at all surprised, he doesn’t show it. “No, that’s my father.”

Oh. Sokka thinks about that. Azulon is still alive, then, all these years later. The man must be over a hundred by now. 

But, age aside, that also raises other questions. Ozai must’ve never planned his silent coup and usurped the throne. 

What did that mean for Zuko? Sokka wants to ask that, the question is burning on his tongue. But he can’t. It would be a mistake to reveal he knows much about the royal family, especially given the fact that the Fire Nation seems so isolated. So Sokka only nods. 

“What is your business here?” Lu Ten asks. 

“I have no business here,” Sokka replies. It’s the truth. “I just want to get back home.” Truth, again. 

Sokka thinks about it. “Will you let me go home?”

Lu Ten’s expression gives nothing away. “In time.”

Great. Sokka runs a hand through his loose hair. ‘In time’. That could be anywhere from a few weeks to months to years. To never.

“How did you get here?” Lu Ten asks again. 

Since he clearly didn’t buy the spirit answer the first time, there’s no point in trying it again. “I don’t know,” Sokka says. It’s not a lie. “I—I can’t remember.” That might be closer to a lie. 

“The last thing I remember clearly is being home in the South, out in the forest. Then everything gets murky until Natsu found me on the beach.” That’s true, it really is. “I would be dead if he hadn’t found me when he did.” 

Lu Ten takes a moment after this. He stares at Sokka, his eyes flickering. “Are you injured?”

“I hit my head,” Sokka says. He did, really, but he doubts it was hard enough to give him any lasting damage. “My whole body hurts—I really don’t know what happened.”

“I’ll send a healer tomorrow.” 

Sokka lowers his head in a respectful bow, the way Zuko taught him, out of habit. He freezes—he probably shouldn’t have done that. He needs to play the fool; he need to seem like a fish out of water in the Fire Nation. 

“Where did you learn that?”

Sokka steals his expression. “I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”

The disapproval is clear on Lu Ten’s face, but he doesn’t protest. 

“Why don’t you allow outsiders here?”

“You don’t know the story?”

“No. We don’t get much news in the South.”

Lu Ten’s mouth turns down in a frown. “There was turmoil in the.. nation. Our quest to keep expanding would’ve destabilized our centre. And since the world did not want to hear our greatness, we had no choice but to protect our own.”

The answer is vague, but it’s enough for Sokka to paint a picture of the world. And given what Sokka already knows about Zuko’s relatives, it’s not hard to imagine when Lu Ten said nation he really meant the royal family. 

“What is your rank, in the South?”

The question catches Sokka off guard. Rank might not be the right word, but he parses Lu Ten’s meaning. He wants to know who Sokka is. Smart. His value changes if he’s a hunter or a chief’s son. 

Sokka now hesitates. If he downplays his role, they might think him unimportant and leave him in this cell (or worse) forever. But if he tells the truth, and they try to negotiate with the South… well, he’s not sure what would happen. Maybe there’s another Sokka there, sitting around a fire drinking tea and eating seal jerky. Maybe the chief is Bato, instead. Maybe Sokka’s never existed. 

“Well?”

Sokka draws in a breath. “I'm the son of the chief.”

“Are you?”

“You asked me to be honest. I am.” 

“Hm. Well then.”

“I’m Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe.” He lifts his chin proudly. This might be a mistake. Any suspicion he’d started to clear away in Lu Ten’s mind would be right back. A nobody could get mixed up in a wild adventure. But the chief’s son? Even Sokka wouldn’t buy it as a coincidence. They’ll think him a spy, he’s certain. 

But why would a spy be straightforward?

Sokka leaves that to Lu Ten to figure out. 

Lu Ten is silent for a long time. The corner of his mouth twitches; he must be trying to figure out what the hell to do with Sokka. 

“Someone will be coming by the end of the week,” Lu Ten says, “and you’re to tell them what they ask about the Southern Water Tribe.”

“I’m not giving up my tribe.”

“I’m not asking for secrets. Just knowledge.”

Sokka considers it. While being sealed away from the outside world might strengthen their sense of national pride, it leaves a gaping weakness, too. A gap in the armour. How can they claim they’re the greatest nation if they don’t know what else is out there? Another nation could be building warships, for all they knew, preparing to invade. And though they must have spies out in the world, they can’t give the same perspective. 

Sokka looks up, grinning like a wolf. _Got you._

The Fire Nation fears what it doesn’t understand. It always has. And Sokka can use that to his advantage. 

“I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Lu Ten nods curtly, before turning and rapping on the door. 

“I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”

“We’re done, for today.”

Sokka sighs in frustration. “When can I at least get outside this cell?”

Lu Ten looks at him, amused. “I’ve told you that our nation is isolated and you think you can just wander through the prison yard?”

Of course not. It was a stupid, misguided hope. 

After Lu Ten walks out, Sokka collapses back on his cot with a groan. He’s never getting out of this one. 

* * *

True to Lu Ten’s word, a healer comes the next morning. He leaves Sokka with ointment for the rope burn on his wrists and bandages the area, which looks red and puffy. 

It’s not much, but the pain eases slightly. 

* * *

The week passes. Sokka works out. Through the barred window, he watches clouds drift past. He sleeps. He counts the number of bolts on the wall. He eats what they give him and washes in the frigid water they bring to him in buckets. That part, he thinks, is just cruel. Given where they are, it must take more work for them to give him cold water than it would if they brought him hot water. 

Time moves oddly. It stretches out and drags and disappears. 

And, finally, he hears the gears of the lock turn. Sokka wishes he’d been able to clean himself up a bit more for this, but the piece of string he used to gather his wolf-tail snapped, and he has nothing to replace it with. 

When the door opens, Sokka’s heart freezes in place. Full seconds pass before it beats again and, when it does, the rhythm is too fast. It shakes his chest and tightens his ribcage. 

In the doorway stands Zuko. 

Zuko is warm red robes. Not military, but still clearly expensive and fine. Zuko with a scroll of paper in his hand and a box (probably with ink and a brush) in the other. 

Zuko with hair gathered all up in a topknot. Zuko with his eyes like liquid gold. 

Zuko who still has his scar.

 _No. That’s not right._ If the Fire Nation is in isolation, then there’s no war. If there’s no war, then there’s no war council. If there’s no war council, then Zuko never asks Iroh to let him in. He never speaks out. Ozai never punishes— 

Oh. 

Sokka thinks he might be ill.

Zuko only glares at him as the door rolls shut behind him and vibrates as it's locked. He tilts his head as he takes in Sokka.

Had he ever seen an outsider before? Sokka thinks it might be unlikely. 

A dull bit of irony. The Zuko he knows spent years at sea, years crossing the world over and over. He lived in the Earth Kingdom, among peasants. 

This Zuko has likely never even see the way the mountains of the Earth Kingdom rise like spikes on the horizon. 

“Hello,” Zuko says, his voice stiff and formal. Three guards come in, carrying a small table and a chair, which they set up along the wall of his cell. 

“Hey.”

Zuko’s throat bobs. “I am Prince Zuko, archivist of the Royal Library.”

What? Zuko must hate that. 

Soka laughs dryly. “Sounds like a punishment.”

Zuko’s eye widened in response. 

Oh. Oh—shit. Sokka’s breath catches. “I—I didn’t mean it,” he spits out. _Fuck._

But Zuko’s face is a hard mask as he takes his seat and pulls out a piece of paper. “I have questions to ask you,” he continues as if Sokka hadn’t spoken. “First. What is the most common food eaten in the Southern Water Tribe?”

Sokka deflates. Zuko sounds stiff. Of course he does. If he grew up in a nation without contact, he must’ve only learned the common tongue in an academic sense. There aren’t exactly many speakers around. 

It explains, too, why Natsu spoke it. He’s old enough to remember the days before they locked themselves away. 

“We fish,” Sokka says. “Lots of fish. Meat from the animals we hunt. Sea prunes when we can find them. In the summer, we have berries.”

A memory flashes through Sokka’s mind. After the war, Zuko came down south for a few weeks at the height of the summer. For the first day, Sokka had been impressed that Zuko wasn’t bundled up in winter clothes as Sokka had half expected him to do. But, the next day, when he’d taken Zuko to see the berry bushes at the edge of the forest, he accidentally brushed up against his arm. 

Zuko was searing hot. He’d been using his fire breath all along. 

Sokka shakes his head. Zuko, here, is writing down his answer. 

“What’s your favourite food?” Sokka asks. He knows the answer—a hot bowl of Unagi noodles with fire flakes, a cup of Iroh’s tea, and strawberry mochi for dessert—but he can’t bear this clinical sort of interview.

“That is unimportant.”

Sokka shrugs. “Answer for an answer. Lu Ten agreed to it.”

Zuko hesitates. “Yes.”

“See, it’d be more natural there to say ‘okay’. Or ‘alright’. Or ‘I’ll do it’, at least.”

Zuko stares. 

“Well? Favourite food?”

Zuko frowns. “I do not know the name in your language. But it is a warm dish. Noodles with… with other things.”

Warmth floods Sokka’s world. 

Zuko is still Zuko. 

Of course, he is. He never should have worried otherwise. 

* * *

They go on like that for some time. Each interview runs long—probably near three candle marks. 

Zuko comes around every other day, at first. But then his visits grow more and more frequent. He’s there every day. Twice, sometimes. 

He has many, many questions. It starts simple, innocuous. What they eat, what they wear. It grows deeper, though. Zuko asks him about their gods. Their culture. The structure of their tribe.

Sokka volleys back questions of nowhere near equal weight. He asks him about his favourite things. About songs and plays he likes. He asks Zuko to tell him the story of _Love Amongst Dragons._

Zuko agrees. The trade questions and answers and, after nearly a month, after Zuko’s demeanour softens, they trade smiles too. Sometimes, he’ll bring extra bread for Sokka. Once, he even brought a book. Sokka couldn’t read the script, but it was something to stare at all the same. 

Today, Zuko brought a moon peach. 

Sokka sinks his teeth in and lets the sweet nectar float on his tongue. 

“What is a typical day like for a hunter?” Zuko asks, his paper in front of him, ready to work. 

Sokka answers between bites of the fruit. 

“Your turn.” Zuko waits. 

Sokka thinks. “Can I go outside?”

“Uh, I don’t understand—”

Sokka straightens up. “I’ve been here for a month now. There’s nowhere I can run. If I’m stuck inside much longer, none of the information I give you will be good because my brain will turn to mush.”

Zuko gives Sokka the look he always does when he speaks too fast. “I’ll see what I can do,” he finally says. 

* * *

That night, after the world outside his window, grows dark and the sounds of the general prisoners fade away, Sokka’s door slides open. 

Zuko stands there. He’s not in the rich red robes he normally wears, the ones lined with gold. No—it’s much simpler. Burgundy pants and a tunic. “Come,” he says. 

Sokka follows without question. 

* * *

They walk through the prison yard. It’s not much, but it feels like everything. A hot breeze ruffles Sokka’s hair. It’s long now; the sides aren’t shorn to his skull. 

Overhead, only the brightest stars punch through the haze of the sulphur and steam. 

Sokka stretches and smiles. “Thank you,” he says. 

Zuko smiles, but his face sours after a beat. He sighs and pushes his hair back and looks up toward the sky, his neck curving. “I won’t be here much longer,” he whispers. “I’ll be replaced by the end of the month.”

“Oh?” Sokka tries to hide his hurt. Who would they send instead? Would he ever see Zuko again? Could he still get home? 

“I’m getting married,” Zuko says plainly. 

“Congratulations,” Sokka whispers. 

“Thank you.” Zuko looks back down, his mouth a line. He bundles his hand and walks onward without another word. 

* * *

“What are the marriage customs of your tribe?” Zuko asks the next day. He’s not at the table, he’s not writing this one down. 

Sokka sits up on his cot. He tells him, as best as he knows.

Zuko nods, apparently satisfied. 

Sokka looks up at him. He can read him easily. Does this Zuko know that? 

The next question forms and Sokka says it before he can think better of it. “Have you ever been in love?”

For a moment, Zuko doesn’t move. He stands there, arms at his side, pupils blown wide. “Not yet,” he whispers. 

And he reaches his hand forward. Toward Sokka. His long, delicate fingers graze over the back of Sokka’s hand. 

And Sokka grips it back. He tightens his hold on Zuko, his anchor. The touch between them is electric; it carries a charge. 

But as quickly as the flush of warmth comes, it disappears again. 

Light floods Sokka’s world. The wave of brightness crashes over him and drags him down, down to the bottom of the endless ocean.

And, again, Sokka floats.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note of where this world came from is at the end, if you want to check it out before reading

Sokka wakes to a world of soft grass. He lays there—aching, but not as sore as he was the first time—in a field of tall grass that bends in the wind like waves. Overhead, the sky is endless and high and blue. 

He doesn’t know where he is. That much is constant, at least. If the lack of consistency can even be considered consistency. 

His hand is cold. Where he felt Zuko’s touch only moments ago now pulses with raw pain, like when he was younger and kept his hand in the icy water at the bay for as long as he could as a dare. Sokka flexes his fingers, hoping the feeling would return.

Zuko. 

Where is he? What happened to him? Did Sokka simply disappear before his eyes, leaving him alone in that cell? 

Sokka groans. He thinks of Zuko, alone, wondering where he went. Zuko who—despite the fact they were literally from different worlds—confessed his fear of marriage to him once again. 

Zuko who wanted to tell him… something. 

Sokka swallows. He tells himself not to sulk. Move first, contemplate later. 

He rubs his eyes and looks around. The field he’s in is flat, but high. In the distance, the world slopes down to a clear lake. On the horizon, mountains spike against the sky. Is this the Earth Kingdom, then? It seems most likely. 

A gust of wind washes over Sokka and he shivers. He’s not in his prison garb—he’s in strange clothes unlike any he’s ever seen—dark pants made out of some stiff, scratchy fabric; a loose white tunic; a form-fitting blue jacket with brassy buttons. Even in the furthest corners of the world, he’d never seen anything quite like it. 

Sokka rubs his face. Great. He doesn’t exactly want to be walking around dressed for the circus. But what other choice does he have? 

He stands and looks around the plain. It’s a meadow, he realizes with a pang. It could be peaceful if he wasn’t lost, marooned in this world that’s not his own. 

Sokka raises his hand to his brow to block out the sun and squints as he surveys the landscape. Far up in the mountains, peaking out against the veil of cloud, he makes the spire of some tall, grand building. 

In the other direction, lower to the ground and close to the clear lake, a small but tight-knight throng of buildings gathers together. Puffs of smoke rise from chimneys. 

The village looks strange, undoubtedly. But Sokka figures it’s his best bet—the other building looks farther away. Besides, there are multiple buildings in the village; if someone turns him away he can simply knock on the next door. 

Sweat already clings to Sokka’s neck, even though the wind is cool. He shrugs off the stupid jacket, throws it over his shoulder, and starts his trek down toward the village.

* * *

Sokka’s shoes pinch his feet. They’re probably the most impractical design he’s even seen—the leather is stiff, the sides dig into his ankle, and they offer only the bare minimum of grip. Several times he nearly tumbles down the path. That would be a way to arrive in style, he thinks—covered in dirt and scratches. 

But at least he does arrive. The walk didn’t take as long as he’d anticipated and Sokka’s grateful for that. He’s certain that his heels are blistered and bleeding. 

The village, too, is larger than it looked from above. The streets are lined with shops and houses and people. 

But it’s  _ strange _ . 

And Sokka means that truly. Wherever he’d been last, it was at least somewhere he knew, even if everything about the situation was wrong. But here? It can’t be anywhere he knows. Even the depths of the Earth Kingdom doesn’t have places like this. 

Sokka wanders down the main street of the town. Market stalls teem with vegetables and fruits. Music plays. Garlands of bright flowers are strung overhead, a lazy arch that sags between the tall buildings. In the streets, people dance. 

But, strangest of all, are the things that carriages. Some are being pulled by beasts, unlike anything he's ever seen—tall and strong, with brown hides, and long muzzles. Other carriages are metal and steam, rattling over the stone on their own account. Sokka wants nothing more to peer inside them, to take a look at how they tick. But he can't; not right now. He has a mission. 

He stays clear of them and clings to the edge of the street. It’s easy to get lost in the crowd. Everyone rushes about. The women are in bright dresses with the puffiest skirts that Sokka’s ever seen. 

The men are dressed in clothes similar to his. Which Sokka is grateful for. The last thing he needs is to stick out again. No—he’s perfectly happy blending into the crowd for now. 

Still, though, he needs to figure out where he is. The horrible thought lingers around the edges of Sokka’s mind: this world is further from his home. 

One vendor near the edge of the market waves her hand, beckoning people toward him—her stall is full of pastries and decadent chocolates and icing-topped cakes. 

Sokka’s mouth waters, even though he has empty pockets. Instead, he walks up to the woman. She has a friendly face, at the very least, and a stature that reminds Sokka strongly of Iroh. 

“Hi,” Sokka says, trying to find the right words. “Um, I think I’m a little lost. Where am I?”

The woman raises her his grey eyebrows. “How’d you get here, if you don’t know?”

Sokka feels his face warm.  _ Great.  _ It’s impossible not to misspeak when he doesn’t know the first thing about a place. “I got a little turned around in the pass,” he says and rubs his neck. Hopefully, that will be a good enough answer. 

“Oh! Dear—” she shakes her head— “you shouldn’t be wandering around like that, you know. It’s not safe for you young ones.” 

At that, Sokka bristles. “I can take care of myself.”

She tuts. “For now, maybe. But do you know who’s out there?”

Sokka shakes his head. The walk down seemed tranquil, despite the rest of everything going on. Had there really been a danger there? 

The woman leans in closer, her warm eyes fierce. “You must watch yourself, especially in the waste. Didn’t you see his castle?”

Sokka nods along, though he doesn’t know what that means. 

“The wizard is out there, you know,” she continues, “and he won’t hesitate to eat your heart.”

* * *

That night, Sokka stays in an inn. A good word from the woman in the market and his clear lack of bags and knowledge is enough to convince the owners—a spindly looking couple with hair the colour of straw—to extend some charity. 

In the morning, he’ll be off. Again. It seems to be becoming a habit. 

Sokka folds back the sheets of the bed and crawls in. This village, wherever it is, sounds different. There’s too much noise that drifts in. The room he’s in has a small fireplace, and even though it’s been long since extinguished, the smokey smell still clouds his nose. 

Sokka sinks back into his pillow (which is surprisingly soft, especially compared to the cell he left). He needs to get home. Somehow. 

His feet ache and his back is a knot of tight muscles, but Sokka knows he’ll have to leave again in the morning. He should get a good rest, especially since it’s the first time in a month he’s actually comfortable. 

But as he shifts under his blanket, the sleep he welcomes doesn’t come. 

Homesickness bubbles in his heart. He misses Katara, even when she needles him. He misses conversations and tea with Aang. Sokka wouldn’t even care if Toph came along and socked him in the arm. 

And, of course, there’s Zuko. Zuko, Zuko, Zuko. His mind always comes back around to him. 

He misses the letters they’d send each other. The conversations they’d have about the future, the moments when they imagined a world better and brighter than the one in front of them. He misses sneaking through the streets. Stealing moments of normalcy. 

And, on top of it all, guilt swims through his head. Had he abandoned that… other Zuko? Had he left him to a loveless marriage? It wasn’t his Zuko. But Zuko was still Zuko. 

Sokka sighs. 

He can’t sleep. 

In a swoop, he peels away the blanket and opens the window that looks out over the street. The gap isn’t large, but there’s enough room for Sokka to crawl out and sit on the slats of the rooftop. Lights glow in windows. People living lives that he’ll never know. 

Sokka lets his chin rest on his knees. 

This isn’t his world. 

Home is a long way away. And he really has no clue how to even begin his trip home. 

But a wizard—dangerous as he might be—seems like a good start. 

* * *

What both the woman at the market and the innkeepers neglected to tell Sokka is that the wizard’s castle  _ moves. _

He woke early, ready for a long trek into the mountains. But as he started up the trail, he realized that the castle isn’t where it was yesterday, nestled deep in the crags and hidden away. Not at all. Today, the castle sits in the meadow where he first landed.

Sokka doesn’t question it. He’s seen strange things. What’s one more? He changes his direction and starts up the same trail he came down yesterday. This time, at least, he has bandages in the back of the stiff shoes to stop them from rubbing his already chafed heels. 

_ Why doesn’t Aang have to deal with this?  _ he wonders as he starts his hike. Somehow Sokka is the one who always ends up tangled in the spirits’ messes. 

The sun beats down on him as he hikes on. Here, the air is light and soft and smells of the wildflowers, of lily and lupine and daisy. Wind ruffles his hair, which is much too short for his liking. He tried to pull it back into his usual style, but the ends weren’t long enough. 

Even down to the smallest of details, it seems the spirits sent him to places designed to disorient him. Why couldn’t he be in a world where the biggest change is that he was taller? 

It all brings it around to Sokka’s big question, one that he’s shocked he didn’t think about before: why? Why did they do it? Is this all just an accident, a result of being too close to the rip in Spirit World that Aang had shown him? Or is there some greater purpose to all this?

Sokka doesn’t know much about the Spirit World. But, from what he does, he’s inclined to think it’s the latter.

Which brings the question back around again: what is the purpose of these trips?

Sokka wishes he knew. But the spirits could never make it easy. 

* * *

Sokka reaches the castle when the sun is nearly straight overhead. He’s warmer than he’d like, nearly overheating again, but the mountain breeze peels off his layer of sweat. Only some of it is from his hike; the rest can be chalked up to nerves. 

The castle is unlike any he’s ever seen. It’s tall, with towers and turrets and a dozen other features for which Sokka has no name, but they stick out oddly all the same. 

He gathers his courage. He can do this. If he wants to get home, this is really the only way he can. He’ll talk to this...this wizard and gather all the information he can. Then he can make his plan. And, before he knows it, he’ll be back in the South, sitting around the fire, eating Sea Prunes. 

Of course, that’s assuming the wizard doesn’t eat his heart. Sokka shivers at that thought. 

Despite his reservations, he knocks on the door. While he waits for an answer, he shifts his weight from his toes to his heels, trying to work out his nerves. 

A moment later, the door swings open. No one tells him to come in. No one tells him to leave, either. 

Sokka takes it in stride and steps inside. 

Inside the castle, the world is dark. It’s different than what he expected, too. From what he knows of castles, he expected rooms full of grand art and high ceilings and blatant displays of wealth. This place is none of that. It’s simple. Homey. It looks like a cottage in need of a cleaning, with a small kitchen, low ceilings, comfortable-looking furniture, and a fire crackling away in a hearth. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” someone says. 

Sokka starts. He looks around, searching for the voice. “Are you a spirit?”

A chuckle. “Far from it. But you shouldn’t be here. He’ll eat your heart.”

_ Great. _ Sokka put most of his faith in that part being a rumour. But now that he’s here, the idea seems to hold more weight. 

Sokka steps back. The floorboards creak under his feet. Maybe he should leave. He might be able to find the information he needs in a library or—

Sokka collides with something soft but solid. His heart stutters. Is this the wizard? It must be. Who else would be here? He whirls around on his heel to face the monster. 

But the only person standing there is Zuko. 

Sokka nearly laughs.  _ So this is how it’s gonna go. _

Zuko stares at Sokka, his eyes narrowed. It’s still Zuko, undoubtedly, but Sokka could laugh at his hair—it’s the colour of sand. What had he done with it? It looks all wrong for him; it washes the colour out of his face. 

“Zuko,” he says. 

“So you’ve heard of me.”

“That’s one way to put it.” 

Zuko brushes past Sokka, his eyes holding no sense of recognition. Of course he doesn’t know Sokka. But it still hurts. He looks at his friend, the man he’s faced the end of the world with, and Zuko doesn’t so much as acknowledge him in return. He only kicks his feet up by the fire. 

“I need your help.”  
Zuko doesn’t even shoot him a look. He only stares at the fire crackling in front of him. “Did you come to me to break a curse?”

Sokka considers. “That’s one way to put it, I guess. I just need to get home.” He pauses. “I need  _ you _ to help me get home.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’m gonna eat your heart?” Vitriol drips in Zuko’s voice. 

“No.” 

“Hm.” Zuko shifts in his seat, but says nothing more. 

“I don’t believe you eat hearts,” Sokka says. 

“Then you’re a fool.”

“I don’t think so.” Sokka steps forward, carefully. “It might be a lot of things, but I’m not an idiot.” 

Zuko looks at him. His golden eyes catch the fire. “You should leave.”

Maybe that’s true. Maybe he should. But whatever is happening in this world, it’s clear that Zuko isn’t alright. 

And Sokka can’t take that. Not again. He can’t leave Zuko when he’s clearly in pain. 

“Zuko,” he says, his voice soft. Sokka doesn’t back away. He reaches forward instead, toward Zuko’s shoulder. 

Zuko doesn’t brush Sokka’s hand away. He does stare at it, though, as if it’s some strange creature. 

“You’re not a monster,” Sokka says.

He hears Zuko’s breath hitch. And his hand, with his long graceful fingers, comes up to rest on Sokka's bare hand. 

Under the tips of Zuko's fingers, a warm buzz starts to form again on Sokka's skin. That familiar electric charge. His hand buzzes, he feels the pulse of it through his core to his spine to his feet. 

And, in an instant, it’s all ripped away. 

Sokka floats again. 

_ Shit. _

* * *

There’s no soft grass or mountain breeze or the smell of lupines this time. 

Sokka’s hurt again. It’s his leg, this time. It’s splintering in pain, the same way it felt the first time he broke it. 

It’s his head, too. When he opens his heavy eyes, pricks of light blink in and out of his vision before they shut again. It’s too much to keep his eyes open; his lids are impossibly heavy. He never considered himself to be a clumsy one, but it seems he can’t avoid it now. 

“Don’t try and stand,” a soft but firm voice instructs. “Stay where you are—you’ve been hurt.”

Sokka knows this. But he takes a moment to consider everything else. He’s on a soft surface, at least. Inside. With someone caring for him. 

There are worse things in the world. 

“We found you in a bad state,” the woman says. “My husband and I brought you back here. You’ve been out nearly a day.”

Sokka nods as much as he can before his head whines in protest. 

“I have to go into the village to get supplies,” she says. “Just stay here and rest. If you need anything, just call for it. My son is here. He’ll help.”

Again, Sokka nods. “Thank you,” he says, his voice rusty from disuse. 

“Of course,” the woman says. 

Sokka cracks open an eye to get a look at her. 

And he freezes. 

In front of him, with plain hair and a simple robe, is Princess Azula. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This world is a Howl's moving castle AU


	4. Chapter 4

Except it’s not Princess Azula. Sokka realizes this as she comes into view more clearly. The woman must be in her late 40s, at least, and her face isn’t pulled into a permanent smirk. If anything, she looks a little sad. 

And part of Sokka reprimands himself for taking that moment, for freezing in fear. He knows that Azula is doing better, that she’s living a quiet life on a slow-paced island. He shouldn’t fear her. 

Yet he still does. He still can’t shake her taunts on the day of the black sun. Even after all these years, that failure lives in the back of his mind and lives and grows. Zuko’s told him to stop fueling it. But it’s hard, he thinks, to do that. Almost impossible. How many lives would he have saved if everything didn’t fall apart that day?

They still won, in the end. But Sokka can’t forgive himself. Not entirely.

As he shifts on the cot, his leg protests in a riot of pain. Sokka bites down on his lip to keep himself from letting out a yelp. It’s been too long since his leg felt this way; the cold-weather aches in his leg are nothing compared to this. 

“Try to rest,” the woman says as she dons a black cloak. “It’s best if you don’t move it.”

And, with that, she’s out the door. Sokka takes in the small room and tries to place it all. It’s a house, that much is certain, in the style of the Fire Nation. It seems he’s in a bedroom of some description. Shoji doors section off the rest of the house—they’re beautiful, with the dark wood and paper. 

Sokka tries to put it all together in his head. Who is this woman? Why does she look like Azula? 

The answer, Sokka realizes, is right in front of him. How didn’t he see it immediately? 

The woman is her mother. Zuko’s mother. 

Sokka groans. Zuko had talked to him before about how much Azula resembles their mother. It pained him, sometimes—a stark reminder of his loss. And Sokka could read the subtext too. It pains Zuko even more that he bears such little resemblance to her. Maybe something around the chin, but that’s where the similarities stop. 

As Sokka tries to nestle himself into a more comfortable position, he hears the door slide open. 

Sokka glances over to see a familiar lean back and a head of long dark hair. Zuko is here. Of course he is. Whatever is happening, the spirits keep pulling together. 

But when Zuko turns around, Sokka nearly gasps in shock. 

He doesn’t have his scar. His skin is smooth; his ear isn’t curled in on itself. But the differences don’t stop there. This Zuko seems lighter, like he doesn’t have a crushing weight on his back. His eyes don’t seem as hard; there’s a certain openness in his stance that Sokka’s never seen before. 

“Um, hi,” he says, his cheeks flushing. 

Sokka tears his gaze away. He didn’t mean to stare. “Hi. I’m Sokka.”

"Lee." Sokka eyes him. He lies so casually that his words don’t even catch. 

He sits cross-legged next to the cot that Sokka’s resting on. “Mom said she found you on the path. You were in a bad state.”

“It’s been a rough few days,” Sokka grumbles. 

“I can tell.”

“Oh, what a nice thing to say. Your manners are impeccable,” Sokka shoots back before he can stop himself. He clamps his mouth shut. _Shit._ That banter is fine with an old friend. Not so much someone who doesn’t know him at all aside from the fact that his mother just saved his life. 

Zuko blushes deeply. From his cheeks through to his neck, his face turns red and he shies away. “I’m sorry.”

“No—no. I really should be the one saying sorry.” Sokka bites his lip. Damn. How’d he make such a mess out of this meeting? “I didn’t mean that. I’m just sore and tired. My sister says I can be a bit of a grouch sometimes.”

Zuko nods along, his skin returning back to its usual colour. “Sisters.”

“Do you have one?” Sokka knows the answer. He shouldn’t be asking, especially since he doubts he’ll like the answer. 

Zuko nods but says nothing. His eyes cast down toward the floor. “How about you?” he finally says, breaking the silence. “Any other family? Anyone we should contact?”

Sokka hesitates. Yes, he has family. But no, they probably shouldn’t contact them. He wonders, again, what would happen if his father or Katara got a letter saying they had him. Is there another Sokka out there somewhere? Or did they swap places? 

Is there another Sokka back at home? One who actually lives in all these worlds?

Or is this all just a figment of his imagination? It’s completely possible that the spirit blast actually killed him and now—

“Hey, you okay?”

Sokka blinks. “Yeah.” No. “Yeah, sorry, just thinking.” He twists his finger through the think blanket. “Um, I don’t have anyone you can contact. Not right now at least. But I’ll be back on my feet in a few days and I should be good to go after that.” 

Sokka might not be ‘good to go’ but he can’t stick around here. He needs to focus on making a plan and sticking with it. He figures his best bet here is to find Aang. 

“From what my mom said you might be here longer than a few days,” Zuko says. He jerks his chin in the direction of Sokka’s leg. “Seems like it was a nasty break.”

Sokka shrugs in agreement. “I’ve broken it before. It’ll be fine.” Of course, without Katara and her healing, it’ll be far from fine. But as long as he has a crutch, he can head out. 

Zuko shoots him a skeptical look. 

To prove himself, Sokka starts to sit up in bed. The pain riots up from his leg, sending a rush of protest to his head, but he pushes it back down. “See? Fine—”

As he says it, the world starts to grow smaller. Darkness rises at the edges of his vision and narrows in—

“Woah, easy.” Zuko jumps up and grabs Sokka, one hand on his arm, one hand behind his back, and eases him back down. 

Around Sokka’s arm, Zuko’s hand is clammy, but there’s no electric charge as there had been before. Sokka frowns. Through his light-headedness, he tries to make sense of it all. Was it Zuko who was sending him hurtling through worlds? His two trips seemed to suggest that it was his touch, but that might not be the case. Sokka groans. 

“Are you alright? I can get you some, uh, water? Tea?” Zuko brushes the back of his neck. “My mom’s usually the one who handles this sort of thing. I mean, even my dad is better at this than I am.”

 _What? Your dad?_ Sokka reels. Ozai is here? Earlier, the woman—Zuko’s mother—had mentioned her husband. But it didn’t click until now. Sokka’s throat turns dry and it’s not on any account of his injury. “Your father?”

“Yeah. He’s out fishing now but he should be back before sundown. He doesn’t have the same touch that my mom does, but he’s pretty decent at it. He makes people feel calm, at least, and Mom says that’s half the battle when healing.”

In all the worlds, Sokka hadn’t imagined Ozai ever making people feel calm. But no matter what this Ozai might be, Sokka needs to amend his plan. He can’t face Ozai. No way. 

So he has until sundown to get back on his feet. 

Shit. 

It looks to be mid-morning, if the way the sun hits the walls is anything to go by, but he thought he had a few days to recover, not a few hours. 

But Sokka’s train of thoughts cleaves in two—a loud crash sounds from the other room, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

Zuko’s eyes widen and, again, he jumps to his feet. “Shit. Sorry. I’m supposed to be watching my sister too.” He rushes over and disappears through a sliding door without another word. 

Sokka groans. Where the hell did he land this time? And what the hell was Azula up to? 

He shifts his head against his pillow until he’s more comfortable. He should rest, he thinks, especially if he wants to leave this evening. A few more hours of sleep, some food, and then he’ll be good to leave. 

Maybe. 

* * *

Sokka wakes to darkness. He’s warm; the blanket around him is soft. The faint smell of fried fish perks him up and makes his stomach tinge. It’s been a while since he ate and—

_No._

He sits up with a jolt. 

The sun’s set. Through the small and high window, there’s only darkness. _Nononono._

He slept too long. He should’ve left by now. 

Sokka throws his blanket back and turns in the bed. Shaking, he takes a breath. He can do this. His leg aches. His head swims. But he needs to leave. 

Slowly he stands. He braces himself against the wall and shuffles forward, avoiding putting pressure on his broken leg.

He takes one step. 

And then another. 

And—

Sokka’s leg buckles underneath him. He careens forward, taking a potted plant off a side table down with him as he slams into the floor. 

Shit. He presses his palms over his eyes. Muffled voices grow louder; the rumble of the door sliding open echoes in his ears. He thought he could do this. Really, he did. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” Zuko’s mother says to him. Her soft voice almost makes him believe her. 

But he doesn’t. None of this is alright. 

Sokka doesn’t pull his hands away from his face. It’s childish, he knows, but he doesn’t want to look at any part of this scene. He wants to disappear. To sink into the floor. To fold in on himself until he doesn’t exist anymore. 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” she says. “Z—Lee? Ikem?”

Ikem? 

Sokka pulls his hands away from his face. 

Zuko’s there, standing in the soft light with a grim expression on his face. 

But the man standing next to him isn’t Ozai. No—he’s short but well built, with dark, tanned skin, brown hair, and a sharp jawline. 

As he leans down to help Sokka up, he smiles. “It’s okay, son,” he says. “You’re safe here.”

Sokka doesn’t hold back his tears of relief. 

* * *

An hour later, Sokka’s sitting upright on the cot, eating rice and fried fish. His heart rate is finally back to normal. He can breathe without everything getting caught in his throat. 

The world makes more sense, too. He pieces everything together as best as he can, from what he knows. In this world, Zuko _must’ve_ still been the prince at some point. And his mother—Noriko, as she introduced herself, but Sokka suspects that’s a fake name too—must’ve been married to Ozai. Zuko still looks the same here. 

Sokka swallows his food and thinks. From the story Zuko told him about his mother, the last time he ever saw her is when she said goodbye before she fled in the night. 

Did she take him with her in this world? Azula too? 

That’s the best way he can parse the situation. Of course, it could be different. But he’ll run with this one for now. 

As he swallows another bite of fish—which is delicious and he really needs to thank Ikem for it again—the door slides open once more. 

Zuko stands in the doorway. “There’s someone who’d like to say hi, if that’s alright.”

“Um, yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”

Zuko shrugs. “Just checking.” 

He turns and gestures to someone in the other room that Sokka can’t see, telling them to come. 

In the open door, a girl appears at Zuko’s side. A young girl, maybe about five or six. Her dark brown hair falls to her shoulders; her eyes are the same burnt amber as Zuko’s mother. In one hand, she clutches a doll to her chest. The other flies up and grips Zuko’s hand. 

Zuko kneels down next to her. “Kiyi, this is Sokka. You have to be careful, like we talked about, remember? He’s hurt.”

She nods slowly and walks forward, eyeing Sokka suspiciously. 

“Sokka,” he says, “this is Kiyi. My sister.”

 _Sister?_ Sokka plays catch up once again. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Kiyi is a perfect blend of her parents—she’s got her mother’s eyes and her father’s complexion. 

Still. Zuko has a sister. Another one. 

Sokka wonders where this leaves Azula. He swallows thickly. “Nice to meet you, Kiyi,” he says. He hopes his smile isn’t obviously pained. 

* * *

Later that night, Zuko comes back to check on Sokka. 

“Anything I can get you?” 

Sokka shakes his head. He needs to clear his mind, more than anything, and he doubts he’ll be able to do that with Zuko lingering. 

“Okay. Well, I’m right next door, so just call if you need anything.”

Sokka smiles. “Thanks, Zuko.” He settles into the bed without thinking, waiting to hear the door rattle shut. 

But the noise doesn’t come. 

He turns his head. “Zuko? Is everything—”

Zuko stands inches away from Sokka. His face narrows to a glare—a familiar one, with sharp eyes and curled lips. “How do you know who I am,” he spits out. 

Sokka opens his mouth. And shuts it again. _Fuck._ He’s not supposed to be Zuko. He’s supposed to be Lee. 

“I’m not asking again.” His voice is deadly. Serious. 

And of course he has to be. The pieces click together. If they’re here, using fake names, then they must be in hiding. In hiding from the most powerful man in the nation. 

Sokka swears. They took a risk helping a stranger—they could’ve left him on the side of the road where they found him. But they didn’t. And now Zuko thinks Sokka could expose them. 

Sokka throws his hands up in surrender. “I’d never tell,” he swears. He never would; not in any world. 

Zuko grabs the front of his shirt and pulls Sokka up and closer. “That’s not what I asked,” he says. 

A shiver sparks down Sokka’s spine. Suddenly, he’s fifteen again, running with Aang and Katara from the firebending prince. “I—we’ve met before,” Sokka spills. It’s as close to the truth as he can manage. “Don’t you remember?” And, okay, that last part is a bit cruel. 

But it works. Zuko backs off, letting go of Sokka’s shirt and taking a step away. His face doesn’t change, though. It stays still and concentrated. “Have we?”

Sokka nods. “Once. We were young.” Sokka takes a breath. “It was on Ember Island. You were there with your family? You wouldn’t stop ranting about how the local theatre butchered _Love Amongst Dragons_ ” The story he spins is shaky, at best, but personal at the same time.

Zuko deflates. “Fuck,” he whispers and pushes his hair back. He shakes his head.

“I’d never say anything. You—you saved my life.” It’s so much more than that too. It’s everything. Zuko is his best friend. The one person in the universe he’d tell anything to. How can he make this Zuko know that there’s nothing anyone would do that would make him spill this secret? Blade against his throat, Sokka would never tell his secret. 

But this Zuko doesn’t know that. This Zuko pressed his hands to his head. His breath quickens. With a pained look, he closes his eyes and draws into himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Sokka says softly. It’s all he can do to try and stop him from panicking. There’s nothing he could say that’ll convince this Zuko of the safety of his secret. 

“We’ve only been here a year,” he says. “I thought we’d have more time.”

“Where were you before then?” If Sokka can get his mind out of his downward spiral, maybe he can talk some sense into Zuko before he’s gone. 

“You don’t know?”

“Uh, no. I’ve sort of been… out of touch, lately.”

“The Fire Lord found us,” Zuko says. He swallows thickly. “It was a nightmare. We barely escaped. I thought the whole nation would’ve heard the story by now.” 

Sokka feels like a fucking idiot. Of course he had to latch onto the one topic that reminded Zuko of Ozai. “I’m sorry. I know that he—”

“He?”

“Um, yeah?”

Zuko stares at him, eyes wide. “Who do you think the Fire Lord is?”

“Ozai?”

“Are you serious?”

Sokka groans. Again, he can never seem to say the right thing. Maybe he’ll learn eventually not to assume anything while he jumps worlds. “I am. But clearly I’m wrong.”

“He hasn’t been the Fire Lord for almost four years now.”

Sokka’s heartbeat quickens. 

“He calls himself the Phoenix King now.”

 _No._ This can’t be real. Sokka’s heart is ice. 

In this world, they hadn’t stopped the war. 

“Your sister is the Fire Lord,” Sokka says, dead and rotting inside. 

Zuko nods slowly. A cold look frosts over his face—one that Sokka knows well. 

“That’s not your fault.”

“When I left with my mother, we tried to bring her too. She refused to come.” He shakes his head, his long hair tangling in front of his face. “I—I can’t help but think how it could’ve been different. I should’ve tried harder to convince her to come. To not run away. We just didn’t—we didn’t have time.” His voice shatters. 

In the low light, he looks like a phantom, with his pale skin and fierce eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he whispers. 

“You can tell me anything. I’m safe.”

Zuko steps forward. “I know that. Somehow.” He cocks his head, taking in Sokka in the cot. “Why do I know that?”

Sokka shudders. “I couldn't say,” he lies. How could he say that? How could he tell Zuko that they know each other in ways that have no explanation? Sokka wonders how all the Zuko’s are related. They’re not separate. It’s Zuko. It only ever is—like a beam of light, hitting a crystal, and splaying out in a beam of colour. They’re all parts of the same whole. 

Zuko reaches forward. Before he touches, he stops. His hand hovers over Sokka’s cheek, his touch so close that Sokka already feels the spark building, the same way he feels the warmth of Zuko’s breath on his skin. They don’t make contact. He snaps his hand back and pulls his lips into a line. This close, he can see that Zuko’s hardly holding it together.

“It’s okay,” Sokka says. “It’s not your fault,” he repeats. 

This time, it’s Sokka that reaches forward. His dark fingers skim along Zuko’s cheekbone, his skin soft and unmarked. What a terrible exchange. The price of this change is the world—Ozai is out there, ruling over the burnt husk of the Earth Kingdom.

Sokka pulls Zuko close before he breaks. Alone, they might not be able to keep themselves from shattering, but together they can work their broken and rough pieces into a whole.

Zuko’s hand curls around the back of Sokka’s neck, each finger gripping on tight.

And, against his skin, Sokka’s skin turns to electricity. 

_Not yet._

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to Zuko as quickly as he can manage while still making sense. “It’s too soon.

“Find Azula,” he tells Zuko as firmly as he can. “She’s not beyond redemption.”

“What—”

Once again, Sokka’s untethered. 

* * *

Sokka skips through worlds like a stone skips across the surface of the water. One world to the next to the next. 

Here is a world where he meets Zuko in Ba Sing Se, still working at his Uncle’s tea shop. The war still rages—at least Sokka thinks it does—but there’s no word of Aang. There is no war in Ba Sing Se. 

Sokka asks for a job.

Zuko hates him, at first. He snaps and rolls his eyes and refuses to speak to him. 

Somewhere along the way, everything shifts.

Sokka leaves him in a square, surrounded by a dozen paper lanterns that Zuko acts like he didn’t light. 

* * *

Here is a world unlike any he’s ever seen. The buildings are tall beyond tall—so high that they break through clouds with their sharp angles and glass and metal.

Sokka wanders through the streets with his neck craned up, gazing in awe.

A second before he steps forward, a rough hand yanks him backward. 

Where Sokka should’ve been, a strange metal carriage zips past. The wake ruffles his air and his skin tingles with discomfort. He’d nearly been hit. 

“Watch where you’re going,” a deep and raspy and familiar voice growls. “I don’t need to look out for idiots. I’ve got enough to do as it is.”

Sokka whirls around to see Zuko. 

But it’s not Zuko.

He’s in his Blue Spirit mask.

Before Sokka can thank him, he’s off, running atop roofs, Dao in his hands. 

Sokka decides he’s not letting him go that easily. 

They meet in alleys; they meet in parks and squares and bridges. 

Sokka finds Zuko working for his father’s company. He talks him up; he inserts himself into his life. 

He searches for Aang. He searches for information on spirits. In this world, there’s nothing to be found. It’s like the Avatar never existed. 

In this world, a month later, Zuko pulls back that same mask. He stands in front of Sokka, silent and still, and asks him to forgive him.

“I couldn't keep it from you any longer,” he admits, his voice strained. “I don’t know, but you got under my skin. Sokka—nothing’s been the same since the moment I met you.”

And, when they touch, Sokka is torn away once more. 

* * *

Sokka spills into a pile of snow. He’s getting better at sticking the landing, he thinks. He hasn’t been injured yet. 

Sokka stands and brushes himself off. He’s no stranger to the cold and in this world, he’s dressed warmly at the very least, with a thick cloak and warm boots trimmed with grey fur. 

But a gust of frigid wind slams into his body. 

_Shit._ He’s caught in a blizzard, the world around him a dome of the same white-grey.

Most of the world thinks that the members of the water tribes can handle even the most brutal weather. But that’s not true. No member of the Water Tribes would fuck with a storm like this—part of knowing the cold is knowing when to respect it. Sokka’s not beating a blizzard like this. He needs to find shelter. 

He holds his hand above his eyes to block the snow and squints as he looks around. It’s nearly impossible to make anything out, but he thinks to his left is a forest—dark lines of leafless trees stick up against the horizon. 

To his right, he thinks he sees a fence. 

Sokka goes right. 

He holds his hood in place against the wind and trudges forward, his feet catching in heavy drifts of snow. _At least I’m getting a calf workout._

By the time he reaches the fence—which wasn’t that far, really—the tip of his nose is numb and his fingers are losing feeling. 

Sokka follows the perimeter of the fence until he finds what he’s looking for—a gate. When he squints, he can make out a grand manor at the end of a path. 

Once more, it takes him too long to walk what is, in reality, not far. As Sokka pushes forward, he passes a garden of bare rose bushes, dead and thorny for winter. 

When he reaches the door of the manor, he takes it in. It’s bigger than he thought. There’s a grand tower off on one side, and strange statues dot the edges of the roof. This is more than a manor; it’s practically a castle. 

Sokka raps on the wooden door. “Hello!” he calls. He raises his hand to knock again, but before he strikes the wood, the door creaks and slowly swings open. 

_Okay._

Sokka eyes it cautiously. 

If he had the choice, he’s not sure if he would enter. But right now it’s step inside or go back into the blizzard. 

His soft boots don’t make a noise on the stone floor. 

“Hello?” Sokka looks around—there’s not a soul in sight. 

But, up ahead, there is a table overflowing with food and a fire crackling away. 

Sokka sits in the chair nearest the fire. He plucks a roll of bread from the table and sticks his damp feet near the flame. Carefully, he breaks off a piece of the roll and pops it in his mouth. 

“What are you doing here?” a harsh voice bites out. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound human. It sounds like a beast. 

Sokka’s head whips around as he swallows, searching for the source. In the gathering of shadows on the far wall, a single, slitted golden eye cuts through the dark. 

“I—I got caught in the blizzard. The door opened when I knocked.” He sits up straighter, ready to defend himself. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” the beast says. “But you did. You ate my food. You took from me without asking and now you’ll pay the price.” 

Sokka frowns. “I don’t have any money.”

“Then I’ll exact a different price.” The thing swims through the shadows, moving closer. 

“I’ll pay it,” Sokka swears. “But let me see you. Come into the light.”

The thing in the shadows comes into the warm fire light. 

Sokka gasps. 

He’d heard stories, when he was young, from Gran Gran. She’d gather him and Katara around her chair before their dad sent them off to bed and tell them old legends from the South. One of them had been of people touched by spirits—people that had spirits tear through their bodies and left them changed, left them half-human. She’d talk of men who were half trees, women who were half koi fish. How these things couldn’t be undone. 

Sokka never thought they were true. How could they be? 

But now… his gut aches; a pit weighs it down. 

In front of him stands a Zuko that’s not Zuko. 

Half his face is soft and human. The other half is covered in thick, deep red scales. The scales of a dragon.

This Zuko has been spirit touched. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so... I'm really trying to devote more time to original work. I had some great encouragement from a mentor of mine that the start of my novel is very strong and could be considered for publication so I'm going to be pouring more time into that. This will probably update fairly slow, but it's almost done. There are only three worlds left--and then home!

Zuko doesn’t speak. Which is unusual. Sokka’s met a lot of Zuko’s—he’s dealt with a lot of Zuko’s now, but this is really the first time he’s had to face a Zuko who is actively trying to avoid him. 

Sokka doesn’t like it. 

Not at all. 

The first reason is that he’s lonely. The castle is much bigger than he thought it was when he first caught a glimpse of it through the snow. All the walls and floors are brick and the shadows in this place seem to be alive. They're giant and swallow the sun that peaks through the small windows. The shadows also seem to be followed by a persistent draft. No matter how hard Sokka tries, there’s always some cool air that sits on his skin. Even by the fire, he’s never quite warm. 

The second reason is that that’s not how he and Zuko are supposed to be. Not that he really has any clue what constitutes any form of ‘normal’ between them, but this is the first world where he can’t even get a word out of Zuko, one way or another. 

Even at home, even when they first met on opposite sides of a war, it wasn’t as if Zuko was ignoring him. Not like he is now. 

Sokka wants to scream. 

The room Zuko gave him is comfortable enough. The bed is plush. There’s a fire and plenty of wood and food miraculously seems to appear on his table at meal times. The draft still comes in. There are still shadows, slopping and long, lurking behind every piece of furniture and gathering in every corner, but there are enough warm cloaks in the wardrobe that Sokka doesn’t feel  _ quite _ as cold as he should. 

But still. It’s not enough. 

After he’s been there a week, he decides enough is enough. He can’t pass it off as a coincidence that the most he’s seen of Zuko since he arrived is his silhouette turning around a corner early one morning—earlier than he probably expected Sokka to be up. 

So Sokka doesn’t sleep. He kicks his feet up by the fire and cracks open one of the books that lined his shelf. This one seems to be about {something}

When the first light peaks over the wintery dawn, Sokka sets down the book. He fastens his cloak and lights a candle stick and makes his way into the hall. 

It’s hard to see where he’s going. The flickering candlelight gets swallowed by the darkness with every step he takes. 

But, sure enough, when he makes his way into the entrance hall, Zuko is seated at the table, eating away. 

When he sees Sokka, he stiffens. 

“I just want to talk,” Sokka spits out before Zuko can say anything contrary. “You’ve asked me to stay here, and I will. Without complaint. But I have to talk to someone. I’ll lose my mind if I’m just sitting alone in my room all day.”

Zuko shoots Sokka a look. He rises from his seat. Like this, Sokka can see him more clearly than he did even on the first night. Zuko’s taller than he should be. Nearly by a head or two. And he’s much more tense—he’s even more tightly wound than Zuko was when he was still sailing around the world looking for Aang. 

“I’m leaving,” this Zuko announces plainly. He’s clearly making no concessions on Sokka’s behalf. 

“Wait—” Sokka reaches forward and wraps his hand around Zuko’s human wrist. 

Zuko looks down, his human eye wide, where their skin meets. 

Nothing happens. 

Sokka half expected that it might, but he couldn’t know for certain.  _ So it’s not just touch, _ he confirms. But what is it then? What, last time, had made the difference. 

For a moment, he stays still, before he realizes that Zuko is staring. 

“Walk with me, at least,” Sokka says. “Once around the grounds. Then you can go your separate way and keep pretending that I don’t exist.”

Zuko takes a deep breath. When he exhales, Sokka feels the heat coming off him in peels. “Fine.”

It’s enough.

* * *

Last week’s storm has long since passed. The grounds, now, are covered in a thick blanket of snow all the way from the castle, past the fence, and to the forest in the difference. Sokka sees tracks in the snow. Tiny footprints of duck-rabbits and birds. Closer to the trees, there must be other animals too, he thinks. Dangerous ones. 

Sokka pushes that thought out of his mind as he walks along. 

Zuko walks next to him. Most of his body is hidden underneath a great black cloak with a collar that even obscures his neck. 

His face, though, isn’t covered. The sun glints off the red scales on one side of his face. 

Neither of them speaks.

Vaguely, Sokka wonders if they hurt. He thinks they must, but it’s hard to tell. Zuko’s pale skin is red where the flesh meets the scales, but Sokka can’t be sure that’s from inflammation and not just how the colouring is. 

At any rate, they walk on in silence. Somewhere in the distance, a bird whistles, announcing the soon-coming spring. 

As Sokka steps forward, the snow under his boots crunches down. When he looks back over his shoulder, he can see the twin pairs of footsteps carved into the snow, along with a straight line that he only assumes can be from Zuko’s tale.

_ Zuko, Zuko, Zuko. How did you get like this?  _ Sokka wants nothing more than to reach up and touch him, to pull him in close and tell him that everything will be alright. 

But he can’t. No—he can’t make promises that he doesn’t know if he can keep. Sokka swallows the lump in his throat and keeps walking. 

When they make it back to the Castle’s entrance, Sokka turns to Zuko. “Thank—”

Zuko disappears inside before Sokka can even finish his sentence. 

He’s nowhere to be found for the rest of the day. 

Sokka turns to reading, again. In the absence of everything else, at least he can disappear into the pages of the book while the sun arcs across the sky and eventually sinks low in the West. 

* * *

The next day, when Sokka wakes and makes his way down to the main hall to find breakfast, he finds something else instead. 

Zuko stands by the door, wearing his cloak. In his hand he holds a smaller one. “Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

* * *

The walks become their habit. 

Each morning—much earlier than Sokka would ever voluntarily agree to—they dress and head off for a silent walk around the grounds. At first, they stick close to the Castle, hugging the giant stone walls as they cut through the snow. 

As weeks pass, as the snow melts, as the buds bloom on the trees, they get braver. Walk along the far edges of the property. They walk through the rose garden. Once, they even walk past the boundary of the Castle, toward the forest, toward a brook. Sokka steps out to cross the small wooden bridge to the other side of the stream. 

“No,” Zuko growls. “This is as far as we go.”

Sokka stops. If he didn’t know Zuko, he might’ve run. Zuko’s certainly not making it easy for him to stay. 

But Sokka pulls himself back. “Fine,” he says with a shrug. “But I think you owe it to me to at least tell me why.”

Zuko eyes him strangely. “Are you not from that village?”

Sokka glances back. The path  _ does  _ look well worn. It would make sense if it leads to a village or town of some description. 

“No,” Sokka answers. “I’m a traveller. I’m from much farther away than you could even imagine.”

* * *

That day, when they make it back to the Castle, Sokka finds his place in front of the fire and picks up his book. 

This time, Zuko doesn’t disappear. 

“What are you reading?”

Sokka shows him the cover. 

“My Uncle used to read to me,” Zuko whispers. “Before everything.”

Sokka wants to pry. He wants to pry into that so badly that it nearly hurts. But he backs off. No good can come from digging in there before he’s ready. “Do you still read?”

Zuko shakes his head. “It’s hard, with my eyes. The vision’s all wrong. It’s like looking through a looking glass on one side.”

“Oh.” Sokka hadn’t even considered that, but it makes perfect sense that Zuko would see differently out of his draconic eye. 

“And it’s a little hard to hold the book. Even if I could see.” He gestures to his clawed arm. 

Sokka winces. He’s an idiot; he shouldn’t have asked a question with such an obvious answer. But…

“What if I read to you?” the words leave his mouth before he can think anything better of it. 

Zuko stares at him. He doesn’t move. His face is all harsh lines. Sokka half expects him to disappear, to slip into the shadow, without so much as another word. 

Instead, he steps forward. Toward the fire. Toward Sokka. 

“I’d like that,” he says. 

Sokka turns the book back to the first page. “Once upon a time,” he reads, “a young prince lived in a shining castle.”

* * *

Their routine changes, from then out. 

In the morning, they walk, same as always. In the month that Sokka’s been there, the snow’s melted away completely. The air smells like spring. 

In the afternoons, they sit around the fire. Sokka reads to Zuko. It takes longer, reading out loud, but even if the pages pass slowly their time together passes quickly. Long afternoons melt away. The days blur together. The world is in bloom. 

But Sokka knows he can’t stay. He’s been here too long already. 

He needs to move on. To find Aang. To get home. 

* * *

Sokka packs a bag one night. A few days worth of clothes and food. He plans to slip out in the night, to go searching for his way home. 

He makes it to the castle gate before he stops. When he looks over his shoulder, a candlelight glows in the window of one room in the West Wing of the castle. 

Sokka shoulders his bag and heads back up the path. 

* * *

He can’t stay forever. 

He can’t leave, either. 

Sokka lies in his bed, wide awake, unable to sleep even the slightest bit, despite the plush pillow and soft fabric of the blanket. 

He needs to figure out a way to make a change. 

* * *

The next day, after he finishes reading the next chapter in the book to Zuko, he pauses. Sokka sets the book aside. 

Before Zuko can disappear, as he usually does, Sokka catches Zuko around the wrist. 

Nothing happens. 

Sokka frowns—he still can’t figure out what causes him to jump. It doesn’t make sense. Whenever he focuses on it, his brain strains and aches. He needs to figure it out. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later. 

“Zuko,” he whispers, “what happened to you?”

Zuko pulls away. He doesn’t, to Sokka’s surprise, slink into the shadows though. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

* * *

Zuko tells Sokka about the curse. He tells him how he was young, how he was young and arrogant, how he was young and arrogant and lacked empathy. How he turned away a beggar. 

How the spirit tore through his body and left him like this. 

“You were a child,” Sokka whispers.  _ It’s not fair. _ “You were only thirteen.”

Zuko shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“How can you say that?”

Before Sokka gets his answer, Zuko vanishes into the shadows once more. 

* * *

When the snow melts and another month rolls past—another month of reading and walking and talking—the bubble they’ve built bursts. 

Sokka doesn’t know how he didn’t realize it before. 

They are not alone. They are not in their own world. 

The villagers have come to the door. The villagers have come with fire and swords. 

The villagers have come for Zuko. For the monster in their forest. 

No, Sokka shouts at them. No. They can’t touch him. 

They won’t touch him. 

But they do. 

* * *

Sokka hurts. He’s gotten used to it. Pain blossoms up his side from where the dull force struck him. When he breathes, his ribs splinter with pain. They’re broken, he thinks, they must be. At least he can still gasp for air; nothing spills out of his lungs. 

He crawls through the grass. Toward Zuko. 

Zuko, who took the brunt of the attack, even though Sokka tried to stop it. 

Zuko, who has deep gashes across his chest. His back is flat against the grass; his eyes stare up at the night sky. The plains of stars. 

“No, Zuko,” Sokka whispers. He reaches forward. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Katara’s gift. That he could stitch back together the scraps of skin. “You can’t die.”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says. A smile ghosts over his face. 

“No.” Sokka isn’t asking. “You can’t go.”

“It’s alright.”

“You can’t go—I love you.” The words tumble out of Sokka’s mouth. He never planned to say them. But they’re true. 

“Sokka—”

And, when their fingers brush together and ignite, Sokka’s gone once more. 

* * *

He didn’t realize he loved Zuko until he said it. 

Once he spoke those words, once he made them into reality, Sokka doesn’t know how he ever thought any differently. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sokka lands on his feet this time. 

For better or for worse, he’s become used to the travelling, used to slipping from world to world. 

But just because he physically can handle it without getting lost in the surf or knocking himself unconscious, it doesn’t make it any easier for him, mentally. 

Mentally, his mind reels, trying to get caught up with what he’d left behind only moments ago and make sense of this new world all at the same time. 

He loves Zuko. 

He does. 

He has for so long. Now, it’s painfully obvious. How could he have ignored it before?

Maybe it’s because of the world jumping. It probably is. Back at home, he never believed it could work—he never allowed himself to even entertain such an idea that he could be with Zuko, that they could fall into a familiar pattern next to each other. 

But, when the world cracked apart, all bets were off. Anything could happen.

Sokka rubs his chest. There’s an ache, there. It’s as if there’s an arrow that pierced through his core and stayed stuck in place; he’s skewered and stuck and aching. Pulling it out is only going to hurt more. 

Sokka breaths. At least, he tries to. He’s dangerously close to a sob, gasping for air like he had that time he’d fallen through the ice one spring. His lungs ache. The air isn’t enough. 

“Sokka.”

He jerks his head up. Katara stands in front of him, her face serious and her hand on her hips. In all his jumps, he’s yet to see her. 

“Katara.” He snaps to his feet. The sight of her alone is enough to bring him a warm wave of comfort. Is he getting closer to home?

“You done feeling sorry for yourself?” she snaps. 

And  _ oh _ that’s how it’s going to be here. Sokka scratches his head as he wonders if she’s annoyed at some recent spat between the two of them, or if there might be more going on than he realizes. 

He takes in the room for a moment, trying to piece together clues from context. Unfortunately, there’s not much. Wherever it is, it looks like a tent of some description. But nothing like the ones he’d stayed in while running around the world with Aang and Katara those years ago. No—this is high class. Semi-permanent. More like the place where he’d found Bato with the nuns; fur pelts are draped along the walls and a map is laid out in the far corner. 

“Um, yeah,” Sokka mutters, brushing the back of his neck. “Just needed to clear my head.”

Katara rolls her eyes. “Get it together, honestly.”

Okay, okay, harsh. Usually, he and Katara swap a short and hot argument before making up—usually, they don’t even need to say sorry, the apology between them is always a silent sort of understanding. 

But this hostility is new. And for what? She’s yet to bring up anything. 

“The prisoner is in the next tent, if you’ve pulled your head out of your ass and are ready to interrogate him.” 

At that, Sokka bristles. Katara’s anger is sharp, not a slow boil. At least, it should be. It’s strange, seeing his sister that’s not his sister. 

Wherever he’d been, Zuko had always been Zuko. Sure, he’d been Zuko in different ways as an inevitable product of the differences, but, at his core, he was Zuko. Always. 

This isn’t Katara. There’s no care in her words. 

“Fine,” Sokka snaps back. He tries to put on his best intense face to match hers.

“Good.” She crosses her arms. “Maybe you’ll have more luck than me—but I doubt it.”

Okay. What is  _ that _ about? She’s wishing him luck and angry at him all at once? He needs to figure out whatever the living fuck is going on. 

“Any suggestions?” He clears his throat. “Things I should ask?”

She lifts an eyebrow at him. “I don’t give a shit. The firebreather won’t let a word slip and Father has ordered we don’t harm him. For now, at least.

“So ask whatever the fuck you want. Just find out where the Avatar is.”

Sokka’s brain freezes over. He’s glad for that, too. If he’d been less shocked, he’d have vocalized his disbelief. Why would they hurt someone? Had someone taken Aang?

“I don’t need to tell you how important this is,” she says, her voice nearly a growl. “With the Avatar out of the way, victory for the Water Tribe is all but guaranteed.”

Sokka nods. It’s all he can manage. Because Katara just called to take down Aang—the love of her life. 

Because the Water Tribe is aiming for victory. 

Because this world he’s stepped into is an uncanny nightmare. 

Can he ever get a break?

* * *

Sokka stands outside the tent where the prisoner is being held and gathers his courage. He really does try to gather his courage. 

He has a horrible feeling he knows who he’ll find inside the tent. 

When he peels back the opening, his fear is confirmed. 

Zuko is slumped in a corner, chained to a post. The unscarred side of his face blooms with black and purple bruises. Sokka’s gut writhes as he thinks of who might’ve given those to him. 

“I’m not talking,” Zuko spits, not even looking at him.

Sokka just stands there, searching for words. 

“I told your sister already—you might as well kill me. I’m not giving up Aang. The world has lived in fear of the Water Tribe for far too long. It ends with us.”

Sokka moves forward.

Zuko—as steady as it seems he’s trying to be—violently flinches away. 

Sokka’s hand shakes. He looks down to see his skin isn’t unmarred either—his knuckles are bruised and scraped. 

He could vomit. 

“I’m not who you think I am,” he whispers. 

“I’m not in the mood to hear your speech.” 

“I’m not—I’m not the one who did this to you.” 

Zuko laughs, rough and dry. “I can honestly say that’s a tactic I’ve never seen before.” 

“No really. I’m not who you think I am.” Sokka bends down and sits across from Zuko, his heart splintering. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Is that where you’re going? Gonna try and convince me that it’ll be better for the Fire Nation to submit to the Water Tribe.”

“No. No, I’m not.” Sokka closes his eyes. He can practically hear Zuko grinding his teeth together. “No nation is better than the others.”

Zuko actually looks surprised. His eye widens and his mouth parts, but he quickly schools his shock. 

“I promise, I’m not trying to trick you, or anything like that,” Sokka spills, “back where I’m from we’re friends.”  _ Back where I’m from, I love you. _

Zuko eyes him.  _ Prove it. _

“You’re a fan of theatre, much more than you admit to anyone. Your favourite play is  _ Love Amongst the Dragons  _ and you tell people that it’s because it was your mother’s favourite play, too, but that’s only partially true. You just thought the dragons were neat. 

“You have a secret sweet tooth for mochi and you deny that, too. You can never brew tea as well as your uncle can, even though you try really damn hard to. 

“You're a brilliant firebender, even though you think you’re not. You’re amazing with your Dao and you know that you are.

“You’re smart and kinda and impulsive sometimes, but you always do what’s right in the end.” Sokka pauses for a breath. Honestly, half of that might not even be true here. 

And, if he’s being honest, he’s not sure when he learned all that about Zuko. But he knows it. He knows that all to be true. 

Zuko’s face reddens. “Are you trying to play mind games with me?”

“I’m not. I promise.” Maybe he’d gone too far. “ _ I’m not your enemy. _ ”

“Right.”

“I’m not.” Sokka scrunches up his face. His words will always be empty to this Zuko. He sighs. Fuck it. 

He might not have a key for the cuffs, but he does have his boomerang strapped to his back. 

“Hold still,” he instructs.

“What?” Zuko panics. He tries to scramble away from Sokka, but chained as he is, doesn’t get far. He only manages to distance himself to the other side of the post. 

“I don’t want to hit you,” Sokka says slowly and  _ okay _ —maybe his bad for raising a weapon to Zuko’s face. But that’s not even how to use a boomerang. 

Instead of throwing it, Sokka slams the metal of his boomerang down on the weakest part of the chain. He does it again. And again. 

It’s slow work, but the cuffs weren’t made to be anything permanent. With a grunt of effort, Sokka brings the hard edge of his boomerang down once again. The chain snaps, freeing Zuko’s hand from being bound to the post. The metal and broken chain still cling to his wrists—a morbid bracelet—but he’s not stuck here. Not anymore.

“See?” Sokka says, tucking his boomerang away on his back. Vaguely, he realizes that if he really had swapped places with another Sokka, if this isn’t all in his head, the other him is going to be pissed that the boomerang is all banged up. It probably won’t even fly straight—which, judging by what he’d done to Zuko, might not be a bad thing. 

Zuko can’t seem to decide where to stay. His eyes fly from the broken chain to Sokka. “Why?”

“I told you. I’m not your enemy.” Sokka blinks. “I’m lost—I’m just trying to find my way home.”

Slowly, Zuko nods. “I can understand that.”

“If this works, if I do get on my way, you won’t be able to trust me anymore. I’ll be your enemy again. You’ll have to treat me like that.” The words come out broken, but they need to be said nonetheless. “Promise me that.”

“I—I promise.”

“Good.” Sokka lets out a small sigh of relief. “Go find Aang. I believe in you all. You can do this. Together, you and Aang have won before.”

Zuko must not understand, but he nods along all the same. Maybe he’s humouring Sokka; maybe he really thinks that Sokka’s gone mad but is pretending to listen to secure his escape. It doesn’t really matter, either way. 

“Look—you can do this,” Sokka says. “Don’t give up.”

“We won’t.” Zuko pauses. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Nervous, Sokka glances back at the tent flap. No one else has come in, but he can’t guarantee that forever. “I don’t know if you know this already, but it’s important: firebenders get stronger with the comet. Waterbenders rely on the moon. When it’s full, they’re at the strongest.”

Zuko stops. His face knits together. “So attack on the new moon?”

“At least. If you need, you can even take the moon out of the sky.” Sokka shudders to think of that, but if the Water Tribe is anything like the old Fire Nation in his world, they’ll need all the help they can get. 

“You should go,” Sokka says. 

Zuko purses his lips. “You should come.” 

“I already told you, I can’t—”

“Whatever happens, the rest of the camp will know you let me free.”

Oh. Sokka hadn’t thought of that.   
“You can’t afford to stay.”

“No. I can’t.” Sokka untangles his legs and stands. He reaches his hand down to Zuko, to help him up. “Let’s go.”

Zuko reaches up. As his fingers wrap around Sokka’s hand, he feels the familiar tug. He’s a fish on a line once more, being reeled out of the water. 

He gasps and coughs and feels his body dissolve like sugar in tea. 

Whatever happens next, he prays he made a difference.   
  


* * *

Sokka is warm and comfortable. He doesn’t open his eyes. He’s in a bed that feels soft and familiar when he rolls to his side and pushes his head further into his pillow. After the time he’s had he could stay like this forever—

“Sokka!”

He jerks up, blinking his eyes wide to open to see—

To see that he’s in his room? 

Is he home? His heart skips with excitement. Every inch of the place is identical to his room back in the south. 

“Did you seriously pick today of all days to sleep in?”

Sokka rubs his eyes. Katara is here. Again. But she’s nowhere close to the Katara of the other world. Her voice has no edge; she’s dressed in her usual furs. 

“Um,” Sokka says, scratching his loose hair. “Sorry?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s good-natured. Spirits. Sokka hadn’t realized how much he’d missed a gesture as simple as that. “Don’t apologize to me; you’re the one missing out.” She bends down, scoops his tunic off the floor, balls it up, and launches it at his head. 

“Hey!” Sokka protests, even though he catches it. 

“Come on, get ready,” she teases. And she smirks. 

_ Uh-oh.  _ What does she know that he doesn’t?

“The ambassador is almost here.” She raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay. Yeah. Sure.” Sokka keeps his tone neutral until he can decide on what, exactly, is the right reaction to this news. 

“You know. The amb _ -ass- _ ador. The one with the ‘silky hair’ and ‘pretty eyes’.” She snickers—she barely managed to get out the last few words. 

Sokka grabs the pillow next to him on the bed and launches it in her direction. 

It meets its target. “Hey!”

Sokka is the one to snicker now.

Katara shakes her head and fixes her loopies. “When you decide to stop acting like you’re twelve again, you can get dressed and come join us to meet the ship at the docks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves her off.

“And you better not be late  _ again. _ ” Katara says, her voice light. “Mom’ll bite your head off if you are.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot!! The 'water tribe is bad au' is not my idea. All credit to batcii-archieve on tumblr and [this](https://batcii-archive.tumblr.com/post/157250040633/a-six-year-old-idea-that-im-still-apparently) post


	7. Chapter 7

Still in his nightclothes, Sokka jumps out of bed and rushes past Katara, completely ignoring her small protest. 

He stands in the main room of their home, his heart hammering in his ears. Sokka swallows the dryness in his throat. It looks the same, more or less. Pelts line the walls. A fire cracked in one corner, a pair of boots drying in front of it. The air is thick with smoke and the salty scent of drying fish. 

And, coming from one of the side rooms, he hears a deep laugh.  _ Dad _ ? Sokka turns slowly, trying to make sense of everything. 

“Sokka! We’re supposed to be leaving now and you’re not even dressed?”

The voice is warm and familiar and even though he’d forgotten the rhythm, it all comes back to him, all at once. “Mom,” he whispers.

His mother, Kya, stands in front of him, her hands on her hips. Suddenly, he remembers that’s where Katara got it from. He’d forgotten that too. 

Her eyes are familiar. At times, he questioned whether he could picture them clearly, or is his memory had muddied over the years. But, no—her eyes are the exact shade he recalls. Her eyes are the same ones he sees whenever he looks in the mirror, only with a few more lines around the edges. 

She’s older than he’d ever seen her. Somehow, that’s the best part of it all. Once, when he was young and Gran Gran told Sokka she couldn’t come penguin-sledding because of her hip, he swore to her that he never wanted to grow old. Gran Gran only laughed, kissed his forehead, and whispered: “old age is a gift.”

Maybe Sokka understands it now. It’s a blessing that his mother has grey streaks in her hair and soft lines across her forehead. What more could anyone ask for? 

He doesn’t think, he only rushes toward her and pulls her into a hug. His eyes sting. He buries his head in her shoulder—he has to lean down, now. She’s even shorter than Katara. 

She squeezes him back. “Sokka, what brought this on?”

“Nothing,” he lies and blinks rapidly to clear his eyes. “Just a bad dream. That’s all.” 

“Must’ve been some dream.” 

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Sokka pulls back and scrunches his nose. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that was true? 

* * *

Sokka stands at the docks in between his mother and Katara, still shaking with nerves and excitement. Maybe they’re the same thing. He doesn’t know. 

But his mother is real. She’s standing next to him (with much better posture) and her chest rises and falls with her breath. 

Sokka actually thinks he might be ill. Because this world isn’t his; he can’t stay here forever. But, for the first time, he really wants to. He can see himself sinking into this place, becoming this other version of himself. The other worlds… well, he always had things (people) (Zuko) that he valued, that he wanted to stay for. But it’s never been like this. 

Here, he’ll need a reason to leave, he thinks. His mother is alive. The Water Tribe is even bigger than it is back home—from the small slice he’s seen, there are old buildings and snaking streets and a market that sprawls from the centre of town all the way to the docks. 

This is a world without war.

That’s all Sokka can think. 

This is a world without war. 

Because it’s not just his mother, or the size of the village, or the way everyone speaks of the Fire Nation without a weight on their tongue: it’s the people. Everyone is lighter. The was a certain hardness, a certain hollowness that war left behind. Everyone was steel on the outside and empty within. Now, everyone is soft. Open. 

And this is not weakness, Sokka thinks.  _ Being soft isn’t a deficiency.  _ Like old age, it’s a blessing. May everyone live soft lives. May they stand by their mothers and have their fathers and sisters at their sides. May they wander through the village streets and not have their hearts seize with the pain of what might’ve been. 

“Sokka,” Kya hisses under her breath, “stand up straight.”

And may everyone get scolded by their mothers, despite the fact they’re twenty. Sokka pulls his spine straight and, glancing at his dad, holds his arms behind his back. 

“You really are twelve,” Katara mutters at him. 

Sokka sticks his chin out straight. Not far out in the harbour, the Fire Nation ship parts the water and ice floes. “She’s just telling me cause I’m who everyone’s watching.”

“And not for the right reasons.”

“Don’t be sad that I got the brains and the beauty—I’m sure there was something left for you.”

“You’re just jealous—”

“Kids.” Hakoda’s voice ripples through the cool air. “Let’s welcome the envoy with dignity.”

They both mumble a quick apology. The minutes pass in tense silence. Wind howls off the water and brings with it an icy chill, despite the fact it’s late spring. In the distance, ice cracks and the occasional call of loon-hares echo in the air. 

Sokka stands still and poised for ages. He could never be in the military, he realizes. They’d kick him out for fidgeting on the spot. 

Finally, the ship docks and the gangplank comes down and a stream of people in heavy red cloaks trickles off the metal ship. 

At the front of the crowd, a spindly looking man with a long grey bread leans into a deep bow with his hands together. “Chief Hakoda,” he says, “it’s my honour to introduce our ambassador—Princess Azula.”

_ What.  _ Sokka’s head snaps toward the crowd where, emerging from her entourage of servants, is Azula. A white fur drapes over her shoulders, and her coal-black boots stand out starkly against the snow. Her dark hair is pulled up in an elaborate sort of coil, like a snake curled atop her head, with a small golden flame hairpiece in the centre. 

“Wonderful to see you again, Chief Hakoda,” she says as she bows. “And family.” The corners of her lips tug up in a smirk. 

Sokka remembers his cue just in time and bows with them. 

“Princess Azula,” Hakoda starts, “it’s wonderful to have you back in the South. We hope that this can be a fruitful meeting…”

A sharp pain shoots across the top of Sokka’s foot. He winces but forces himself not to react—on his side, Katara eyes him, her smile full of amusement. His father keeps talking, but Sokka stops listening. He raises his eyebrow at Katara:  _ what? _

She looks at Azula. And back at him. And then at Azula once more. 

_ Oh no.  _ No no no no no. 

That cannot be right. Can’t it? He doesn’t like Azula. He doesn’t. In what world—

As the Princess turns back to her attendant, her eye catches his for a moment. A moment that is altogether both brief and too long. 

_ Oh no.  _

“Come on, Sokka,” Hakoda says and claps him on the shoulder. “We better get ready for the meeting this afternoon.”

Numb, Sokka nods. “Yeah—yeah. Sure. Of course.” He rubs his neck and looks back at the docks, back at the sea of people knitted together and bustling. 

For a second, he thinks someone waves a hand at him. But, when he looks closer, he decides it must’ve been a trick of his eyes. 

* * *

Sokka paces around the small library. He didn’t know people actually paced. He’d always thought that was something people only did in novels and plays and stories. 

But here he is, walking in circles around the library. Daylight streams in the window and, thankfully, it's quiet here. No one is talking to him. Hakoda had instructed him to find an old scroll about fishing in Half-Moon Bay, but he hasn’t gotten around to pulling that out yet. He will, eventually. Whenever he sorts out the fact that he might be romantically involved with  _ Azula. _

Sokka shudders. Nothing against her, really. She’s gotten better lately. She’s smart and talented and, Sokka supposes, pretty. 

But he’s also very much in love with her brother. 

Sokka groans and sinks down at the small desk in the far corner, under the grand window that looked out to the harbour. He folds his hands and rests his forehead against the wood. Maybe he could just smack his head hard enough and he’d come untethered once again. Then he could drift home. 

While Sokka debates the merits of giving himself a minor head injury, a click of the door sounds behind him. He whips around, face warming at being caught in his slump. 

Someone in a dark cloak closes the door. It doesn’t look nearly warm enough for the time of year, and who wore their hood up inside? 

“Hello?” Sokka stands, nerves sparking. He doesn’t have his boomerang on him, or even a small knife—weapons, apparently, were frowned upon at diplomatic meetings. 

Before he can say anything else, the dark figure blurs towards him. Sokka steps back, trying to steady himself and also plan an offensive attack on whoever this is. 

But the dark figure doesn’t go for a kill. No—they wrap their hands around him and pull him close. 

“I missed you,” a familiar and raspy voice whispers in his ear. 

The tension deflates from Sokka’s shoulders. He wraps his hands around Zuko too. This, too, feels like coming home. Everything makes sense once more. How had he doubted it? “You scared me,” he whispers back. 

Zuko steps away and pulls down his hood. He still has his scar. Sokka frowns at that—he wishes more worlds were kind to Zuko. 

“Maybe if you met me at the docks like we’d planned, I wouldn’t have had to scare you,” he says and sits on the desktop. The glow of the sun illuminates his skin and his eyes hold the warmth. 

“Right. Like we planned.” Sokka gives him a wan smile. In some ways, it’s easier when they’re strangers. He doesn’t have to try and match a rhythm he’s never heard. 

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.” 

“Look—we’ll figure this out. I promise,” says Zuko. He is unusually optimistic, Sokka thinks, so maybe this world hasn’t been too harsh to him. “But for now, I’m here.” 

Sokka nods. “So am I.” 

“I can only stay for a week. After that, I’m off to the Earth Kingdom for a short tour and then up North for who knows how long. They need their ambassador, apparently.”

So that’s how this works—Azula meets with the South and Zuko goes to the North. It makes sense, in some ways. 

But in other ways, it doesn’t. Shouldn’t at least one of the two heirs be spending more time in the Fire Nation? 

Unless—

Sokka swallows. Unless they aren’t the heirs. 

If there was no war in this world, there was no siege of Ba Sing Se. 

Lu Ten is likely alive, once more. He’s the one spending his days in Caldera while his royal cousins get shipped to the ends of the earth. 

Zuko clears his throat. “But while I’m here and we’re alone…” He smiles at Sokka, wiggles his hips, and gives him a pointed look. 

Sokka could dissolve. He’d already touched him, that was true, but that wasn’t on his skin—his hand only caught a fistful of the thin cloak fabric. And, besides that, Sokka isn’t  _ his  _ Sokka. 

"Wait! You can't touch me."

Zuko’s face crumbles and then flushes bright red. “I—what? Sokka? I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I just thought… from your letters and last time and everything you know.” He turns to the window, suddenly seeming very interested in watching the people on the street. 

"No, no. It's not that," Sokka says quickly. "It's a curse."

"A what?"

"A curse. Or a spirit. Or something, I don't know, I'm trying to figure it all out." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "But I think if you touch me, something bad might happen."

Zuko eyes him suspiciously. "Are you sure that's all this is about?"

"Yes." Sokka smiles wanly. "I've almost got it solved. I think." That might be a lie, but when Zuko relaxes, Sokka thinks it's worth it. "It's got nothing to do with you." Even though it really has everything to do with Zuko. 

"Well, let me know if I can help."

"Of course," Sokka says. The air between them is heavy and the silence swallows them whole. 

“I’m trying, you know,” he whispers. 

“What?”

“You know my father...there are times I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m looking for ways, though. I promise. Yue is on board too—she’s been doing her own research.” He looks at Sokka earnestly, openly. “I’ll find a way to break off the engagement without starting a war.”

_ What. _ Sokka spirals. Zuko and Yue? He presses his lips together and nods along, trying to take everything in stride. “I know you’re trying,” he whispers. Even if he doesn’t know this Zuko, he knows Zuko. “This isn’t about you. This is about me, okay? I’ve just had a bit of a weird time lately. Personal stuff.”

Zuko visibly relaxes. He pushes a loose strand of his long hair away from his face. “Good,” he says. His eyes sweep over Sokka from his hair to his boots. “Though if there was anyone worth starting a war over, it would be you, Sokka. It’ll always be you.”

* * *

As it turns out, Zuko’s not supposed to be here. Go figure. That’s why he’s going for the whole cloak and dagger thing—he’s blending in with the crew. Sokka has to give it to Azula, though, because she really pulled through for him. For them. 

And, as it also turns out, that’s why Katara gave him flack. 

Half of the South Pole thinks he’s in love with the Princess—a plan, apparently, that’s his own design. Sometimes, he thinks he’s too smart for his own good. 

After a meeting (which Sokka stays quiet through), he finds himself suspiciously placed next to Azula at dinner that night. She nods at him before digging into her fish, a little too aggressive with the knife for Sokka’s comfort. 

He eats slowly. Between each bite, he scans the crowded hall. He’s surrounded by his family and Fire Nation dignitaries and other members of the Tribe. Servers and attendants line the halls, silently moving and appearing exactly when needed before melting into the background once again. 

Sokka washes his food down with rice wine and looks to the servants once more, hoping to catch another glance of that dark cloak. 

“Am I not interesting enough for you?” Azula says, matter-of-fact. She doesn’t even attempt to whisper. Perhaps she knows that would be even more suspicious than holding a normal conversation. 

“Sorry,” Sokka mumbles into his food and turns to her. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind, lately.”

“Haven’t we all?”

Sokka runs his finger along the rim of his cup. A few spots down, his mother catches his eye and glares until he pulls his hand back. Had she always been so eagle-eyed? He was too young to remember. 

“You need to pull it together if you want this to work.”

Sokka nods in agreement. “I know. I will.” For a moment, he pauses, considering his options. “There’s no chance that your uncle could step in?”

Azula lets out a dry laugh. “The Fire Lord has better things to do than play matchmaker. Setting up one pairing was more than enough.”

“Right.” Sokka swallows another gulp of rice wine. The Iroh he knows loves nothing more than playing matchmaker. The changes, no matter how minute, never cease to amaze him. 

* * *

Zuko taps on Sokka’s window after sunset and nearly gives him a heart attack. Sokka had his head buried deep in a book about the spirit world—he hadn’t been paying any attention to his surroundings. His own room would be a safe place. At least, he thought it would. 

“Relax,” Zuko says as he crawls inside. “It’s just me.”

Sokka nods. “It’s never ‘just’ you.” 

Zuko gives him a small smile which pulls his heart in fifty different directions. “I thought we could talk.”

And they do talk. 

Zuko sits against the wall, draped in a knitted blanket. He flicks his finger and lights the oil lamp on the bedside table. 

Sokka starts sitting on the end of his bed, listening intently, nodding along to Zuko’s stories. He’s been reading, apparently. Looking into every old record and story he could find to figure out the best way to end his courtship with Yue without setting off a diplomatic bomb. 

At some point, Sokka moves from sitting and instead sprawls across the end of his bed, the wrong way he’s supposed to lay on it. And, at some point, Zuko moves from the wall to the top of Sokka’s bed and curls up like a mousecat on the pillow. 

The words come easily. So easily. It shouldn’t be a surprise—they’ve known each other in a half dozen lives. What’s one more?

“Sometimes,” Zuko wishes, “I wish I lived in another world. One where the only person I had to think about when I made choices was myself.”

“I don’t think worlds like that exist.”

“Maybe not. Maybe I wouldn’t want to live in one, anyway. But it’s nice to imagine it, I think.”

Silently, Sokka agrees. 

At some point, they fall asleep. Sokka doesn’t even notice. 

When he wakes, with the haze of sleep still holding him somewhere between dreams and reality, Sokka catches the sight of Zuko’s head slumped against his shoulder, his arms crossed, and his chest rising and falling with his breath. Sokka’s sure he’s still in a dream. 

As he blinks away the fog, reality comes back to him. 

He wants nothing more than to stretch and crawl up next to Zuko, to lay his head on his stomach, to rest in the early sunlight together without a care in the world. 

Again, like a mousecat, Zuko turns his head toward the sunlight. His eyelids flicker before they open and, for a moment, Zuko smiles and the world melts away and it’s only the two of them, the two of them like the way it’s always been, the way it always should be. 

But the bubble of the moment bursts—the bliss on Zuko’s face peels away into a horrified look. “Shit.” He rubs his eyes. “I stayed too late. Someone might see.”

Before Sokka can say much else, Zuko slips back out the window, whispering a prayer that it’s still earlier enough that he’ll be able to disappear undetected. 

Sokka watches his dark cloak as he moves down the street. 

Sokka frowns. It’s been a day and he’s not sure how long he can keep this up. What did the other him do? How has this not driven him mad?

* * *

When Sokka comes downstairs, Kya is making some sort of berry tea. 

“Is there enough for me to have a cup?”

“Changed your mind, then?”

Sokka nods. 

Kya laughs lightly. “I knew you’d come around on it. Now you’ll just have to help me convince your father.” She ruffles Sokka’s hair and turns to the fire and puts her hand on her hip. 

Sokka’s heart swells. 

He could stay in this world so easily. He could slip into this world like a pair of old boots, worn and familiar. 

The longer he stays, he thinks, the harder it will be to leave. 

* * *

Sokka’s lacing his boots, getting ready to head off to sit through another meeting (and, if this world is kind, he’ll be able to stay silent once more) when Katara comes to his side. 

“You know,” she says, “when Mom said she wanted grandbabies, I don’t think she meant now.”

Sokka chokes on his spit. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot, Sokka. I heard voices coming from your room last night.”

Sokka groans and tries not to die on the spot. “We were just talking.” It’s not a lie in any way, even if it’s not quite the truth, either. 

“Right. And I’m the Earth King.” 

Sokka glances over his shoulder, quickly checking for his parents. “Like you’re one to talk,” he says. “I’m surprised there’s not a little bender already, wreaking havoc—”

A palm of ice-cold water collides with the side of Sokka’s face, leaving his skin stinging and raw. “Hey!” He wipes his face.

Katara fumes. Her lip curls, her brow knits. And, above everything else, she looks hurt—deep in her eyes, she’s upset. “That was uncalled for.” Her voice is cool and flat. 

“What d’you mean?”

Katara doesn’t say anything, she just keeps her jaw tense. “You know, after I turned down Nuniq, I thought I at least had my family on my side.” She storms away, her braid snapping behind her. 

Sokka closes his eyes.  _ Great. One more mystery to solve.  _

* * *

In the end, he pieces it together. Katara was in love with a fisherman named Nuniq. He loved her too. Or, maybe, he loved the idea of her. Nuniq wanted a quiet and demure wife. 

Katara is anything but. 

Still, Sokka sees how that break stays with her. She's quieter, sometimes. A little less sure of herself. 

Each world, it seems, has a give and take. 

* * *

The days pass all too quickly. Sokka sits through diplomatic meetings and nods along. The issues they hash out seem trivial in comparison to the things they discuss at these meetings back home. He keeps quiet and nods along and, when the conversation lulls, occasionally adds a thought of his. 

He finds himself next to Azula more often than he should. She doesn’t say much. But she doesn’t shoot him full of lightning, either. 

Katara seems to have forgiven him for whatever nerve he struck in the way that only siblings can: silently and without fanfare. 

He’s walking back from the council hall with Katara one afternoon, the afternoon with three days left until Zuko is supposed to depart. She’s more quiet than usual still, but she’s not actively throwing sheets of icy water at him anymore. 

“So,” Sokka breaks the silence, trying to sound casual, “how about the Avatar?”

Katara glances at him over as she walks. “What about him?”

“I dunno. Just, uh, wondering, you know? If you’ve heard anything from him lately?”

“Why would I hear from the Avatar?”

Sokka shrugs. “I don’t know—it just seems like the two of you might get along.”

Katara shakes her head and turns back to the street. Under her boots, the spring snow churches and the breeze that drifts over them is cool, but carries a hint of warmth. 

“You’ve been acting weird this week,” she says. 

“I know.”

“Is it Princess Azula?” she asks carefully. “Are you going to… you know, purpose?”

Sokka holds in his laugh. Sometimes he didn’t know how the two of them are related—Katara would miss a monkey lemur dancing in front of her. “Uh, no. Not her. I guess I just have questions and I think Aang is the best person to answer them.”

“Well, Avatar Aang is gonna be here for the closing meetings—just ask him then. I mean, if you can ever get near him.”

_ Wait. The end of this week?  _ Sokka smiles to himself. Sometimes, he thinks, sometimes things line up nicely. He’ll have to thank the universe for that. 

##

Zuko sneaks in his window, again, like he’s done every night. In the low flame, the curve of his lips casts a shadow. When he laughs, the sound rings like a bell through the room. 

Sokka runs his fingers across his blanket. 

When Zuko falls asleep in the chair next to Sokka’s bookcase, he drapes the blanket over his shoulder before he blows out the candle and slips into his bed.

“Sokka?” His voice cuts through the dark. 

“Yeah?”

“What if I stayed?” he asks, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“I’m not gonna make you walk back in the dark.”

There’s a long beat of silence. “No, Sokka. What if I  _ stayed.  _ What if I didn’t leave in a few days.”

Sokka’s throat closes at that. Isn’t that all he wants? A place for them both to stay? A world where neither of them has to move on before they’re ready? 

But this isn’t his world. “I don’t think I can answer that for you.”

In the dark, Sokka hears only the wind against the wall and the soft rise and fall of Zuko’s breath. “Think about it,” he says. 

“I already have.”

* * *

  
  


The week passes much too quickly. Azula manages to negotiate to lift tariffs on fruit and fish and puts forward a five-year plan to strengthen the two nations' relationship through the exchange of students and trades workers. It’s a brilliant plan, Sokka will admit. She’s sharp as she ever was. 

Kya fussed over Sokka and Sokka lets her. 

He still can’t believe it, not really. Not even with her familiar smell, like smoke and soap. Not even with her warmth. Not even with her voice. 

Maybe it’s because he knows he’ll have to leave. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been spending as much time with her as he should (well, that and the fact they always seemed to get stuck in separate meetings). 

On the last day of the conference, before the last meeting and before Aang is set to arrive, Sokka finds Kya donning her parka and gloves. 

“I just need a walk,” she says, “need to clear my head.”

He nods. He does that too, from time to time. Had he gotten that from her? “Can I come with?”

Kya gives him a crooked smile. “Of course you can. When would I say no?”

They walk together through the streets to the edge of town—which is further into the tundra than Sokka remembers—mostly in silence. Walking, he thinks, is a good way to sort out problems. He has no choice but to keep thinking and keep moving forward and hopefully by the end of it all, he’ll have a decent solution. 

“Something on your mind?”

Sokka can’t hide his surprise. “Um, yeah. I guess you could say that.”

Kya stops on the snow-trampled path. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right? Your father and I will always support you.”

Sokka breathes a little easier, even if he can’t come up with a way to explain everything swirling around in his brain. What would he say?  _ Hey—I keep jumping universes and now I need to speak to the Avatar to fix it (who, by the way, is Katara’s boyfriend at home) and while we’re on that topic, I also just realized that I’m in love with my best friend.  _

Sokka hesitates. “How did you know Dad was the one for you?” he settles on.

Kya smiles and her eyes crease in the corners. “Love been on your mind lately?”

“Yeah.” Sokka pushes his hands into his pockets and doesn’t meet her eyes. Before he can duck away, out of her careful gaze, her thin but sturdy arms pull him into a hug. 

“Oh, Sokka.” She presses a kiss to his temple. “I remember being your age. Everything feels so heavy when you’re young. And it’s hard to know what everything going forward is going to look like.

“When it came to me and your dad, I’m not sure if I knew he was the one. Not at first. I don’t know if you can ever know if someone is ‘the one’.” Kya pauses, turning her chin up to the sun. “I’m not even sure I believe in ‘the one’. I think there are many people in everyone’s life that could make them happy, if they gave them the chance.”

“Gee, Mom. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I don’t mean that in a pessimistic way—not at all. I think it makes love all the more beautiful. Love is a choice, Sokka. It’s not something that just happens beyond our control. It’s something we choose and we have to keep choosing, every day, even when times get tough. Isn’t that better?”

“I guess. Doesn’t make it any easier.” Sokka had heard old legends of soulmates—the one perfect person in the world for you. That would be so wonderful, he thinks, that would free him of any lingering doubt.

“You’re right: it is harder this way.” Kya squeezes his hand. “But since when is anything easy ever fun?”

* * *

“If you keep staring into the sun like that, you’ll go blind.”

Sokka keeps staring at the sky, his hand over his brow to shield his eyes. “I better write to Toph, then.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.” He squints at a clump of clouds. Could Appa be hiding in them? 

“Just calm down, honestly,” Katara says. 

“Aang should be here by now.”

“Since when has the Avatar followed a schedule? He’ll turn up when he turns up.” Katara stretches her neck from side to side. “I just wish we didn’t have to be here waiting for him. That huge training arena is just sitting there empty and I’ve almost got the newest form down.” 

“You don’t want to see Aang?”

She shrugs. “I don’t really care, either way. And why do you keep calling him Aang?”

Sokka bites the inside of his cheek and drops the subject. It’s not fair for Katara here. He’s heard enough already. 

After nearly an hour of standing in the field, his knees and back starting to ache, someone shouts: “look!”

Sokka snaps his head up. Sure enough, emerging from a cloud is a familiar off-white blur. Appa arcs across the sky and the people gathered rush back to their places, ready to greet the guest of honour. 

On the far side of the plain stands Azula and her guards. One of them dips their helmet every so slightly in Sokka’s direction. 

_ Oh.  _ So that’s what Zuko’s been up to all week: hiding in plain sight. It’s not a bad disguise. Far from it. In fact, Sokka (begrudgingly) has to give it to Zuko that, out of the two of them, he might be the one better at stealth missions. 

When Sokka looks back up at Appa, he realizes something is wrong. Appa’s moving slowly, too slowly, like the way he did when he and Aang first came out of the iceberg. 

As they draw closer, Sokka’s mind races to catch up with everything. 

If there never was a war, here, then there are still Air Nomads. If there are still Air Nomads, that means they probably never would’ve had to send Aang away to rush his training. If Aang’s training was never rushed, he wouldn’t have run away. If Aang never ran away…

Appa lands with a heavy thud and stirs up dusty snow in his wake. 

A bundle of orange and red and yellow robes flash as someone slides down from the saddle. 

Sokka had thought the worlds couldn’t get much stranger. 

He was wrong. 

In front of him stands Aang—the man who might as well be his younger brother. The last time he saw him, Aang was dragging him into the forest to investigate the spirit world and cracking jokes about the time the spirit bear stole Sokka away.

This Aang is far from his. 

This Aang is one hundred and eighteen years old. 

His skin is wrinkled, his arrows no long straight lines, and he stands with a slight hunch. Still, there’s the same sparkle in his grey eyes. 

“Avatar Aang,” Hakoda’s voice booms through the clearing. “Welcome.” 

The next moments are chaos—there are introductions and porters grabbing bags and bows and more greetings. In the crowd, Sokka loses both Katara from his side and his sigh of Zuko. 

He glances around, trying to find someone or something to ground him when someone taps his shoulder. 

Sokka whips his head around. 

Aang stares at him, his mouth set in a straight line. “You don’t belong here,” he says. 

“No—no I don’t.” 

“I know I’m old, but this world is still under my protection.” He straightens up and narrows his gaze in a way that might’ve been frightening if Sokka didn’t have the memory of Aang crying over a baby penguin-seal the first time they drank sake together. 

Sokka forces himself not to roll his eyes. Seriously, Aang? Did Sokka really look capable of some nefarious plan? “I  _ know _ . I was actually going to talk to you. I need you to help me get back.” 

“And what makes you think I’ll help you?”

“Well, you’re the one who got me into this mess in the first place, so I’d say you owe me a favour.”

Aang is still glaring at him, giving Sokka his signature ‘I’m the Avatar and I have a Big Important Decision to make’ look when something wet and warm collides with the side of Sokka’s face. 

“Appa!” He wipes away the spit (and, seriously, why does this always happen to him?) and reaches up to scratch the bison in his favourite spot—under his chin. “Good to see you, boy.”

“Hm.” Aang’s expression softens too. “Meet me in the council hall tonight, after the dinner. We’ll sort it out there.”

Sokka nods.  _ He could be going home.  _

But as he looks toward his parents, as he sees them together and happy and alive, he’s not certain he’s ready to leave. 

He doubts he ever will be. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is half of the original chapter, but the of chapter was a little long and emotionally heavy, so now it's two. Probably two more chapters after this!

Sokka sits tense through the meeting, barely registering anything that’s being said. It all seems a bit trivial compared to the problems at home. And, mostly, Sokka can’t tear his gaze away from Aang. It’s strange how familiar and foreign he is, all at once. Deep wrinkles crease his brow, but his smile is still crooked. He sits and listens with half-closed eyes, but later, when they’re all filtering out of the meeting, he spins a pair of marbles around in his palm to the delight of a crowd of children. 

It makes Sokka’s heart tinge. As have most things in this world, if he’s being honest. He’s not sure how much longer he can take it. 

As the crowd filters out into the street, Sokka ducks to the side and slips past Azula’s guard. “Council hall,” he whispers, moving his lips as little as possible and praying he has the right person. “Tonight. After dinner.”

The guard nods ever so slightly and Sokka breathes a sigh of relief, his breath puffing up in the air. 

_ Tonight.  _ Sokka shivers and he doubts it’s from the chill.  _ Tonight.  _ He might be going home. 

On his left, his mother laughs and loops her arm into the crook of Hakoda’s arm. The sunlight catches the bronze of her skin. 

_ Tonight.  _

Sokka sucks in a breath and tilts his chin to the sky, letting the heat from the sun warm his skin. 

_ Tonight. _

* * *

The dinner is another formal affair. 

Sokka should slip away as it’s wrapping up—if he hangs around too long, someone is bound to start chatting and then he’ll never get away. 

But he has something to do first. 

He slips through the crowd in the reception hall. Voices echo off the high arches of the ceiling and, past the windows, the night is deep and dark and certainly cold. 

Sokka swallows and searches his core for courage. His supply is dwindling low as of late. There’s only so much he can take—these past months have sucked out every inch of determination from the marrow of his bones. 

He’s tired. 

He wants to rest. To sleep in his own bed, with a family that’s real and his and might not vanish if he brushes Zuko’s hand. 

It’s long past time to go home. 

But first, he taps his mother’s shoulder. She looks lovely, tonight (and she does every night) but her dress is the colour of the ocean in its darkest parts and it brings out the colour of her eyes. A braid, like Katara’s, sits at the nape of her neck. “Sokka,” she says as she turns away from whatever neighbour she was speaking with, “is everything alright?”

“Of course,” he lies. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

She takes a sip of the drink in her hand. And her eyes dart over to Azula, currently deep in a conversion with a particular member of her guard. “No reason,” she says smoothly. “But I  _ do  _ remember being your age once, you know.”

Sokka’s face warms. He smiles, but the weight of it all tugs down the edges of his mouth. “I know, Mom. I know.” He pulls her in close, into a tight hug. 

If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. Not for a second. She’s hugging him right back, her arms tight against his back and a few drops of her drink sloshing over the side of the glass. “Oh, honey,” she whispers. “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?”

Sokka nods, unable to speak. Even if he could manage to open his mouth, he doubts he’d be able to form words. 

“It doesn’t need to be so heavy,” she says plainly. “And, if it does, we’re here to help you carry the weight.”

Sokka smiles, his eyes warm and wet. “I know,” he says. “I know.” 

She squeezes him around the arm. “Good. I’m proud of you, you know. Of the man you’ve become. But no matter how old you are, you can always come to me for advice.”

“I love you,” he says. 

“I love you too, Sokka.”

_ I love you so much.  _

As Sokka makes his way out of the reception hall, away from the clatter of plates and echoes of laughter and the warm smells of roasted fish and mulled wine, he keeps his head locked straight forward. Inside, the room glows with the light from candles and oil lamps. 

When he pushes through the door, the cold wind greets him. Wet flakes of snow cling to his eyes lashes, but his stomach is full from the good meal and his head is warm with the edge of the wine. 

Back in his world, his leg would ache if spent too long walking in the cold like this. 

Here, he walks unhindered and doesn’t look back. 

* * *

When Sokka opens the door to the council room, Aang is already seated at the table, his hands bundled and back straight. 

Across the table, Zuko leans on the edges, his guard helmet in his arms. 

Neither of them speaks. The silence hangs heavy in the air. 

Sokka steps forward. The door creaks closed behind him and his footsteps might as well have been stomps, the way they ring through the chamber. 

“So.” His throat is thick with nerves. “You’re both here.” 

They nod. 

Zuko raises his eyebrow. “It’d be nice to know why.”

“And I’d like to know where you’re from,” says Aang. 

“Wait—what does he mean by that?”

Sokka wants to tense and hide and dissolve under their gaze.

He doesn’t. He straightens his back and lifts his chin (and puffs up his chest, but he won’t admit it). “It’s a bit of a long story,” he says. 

“Well,” Aang replies. “You better get started then. We don’t have forever.”

Sokka nods. “It started with Aang taking me to look at an anomaly in the spirit world,” Sokka starts. 

And so he tells them everything. 

He tells them about the way the light had arced out of the tear in the spirit world, and he tells them about how he floated in an abyss and landed on a shore of a strange world, a world where the Fire Nation had closed their doors. He tells them how, from there, he’d gone skipping through worlds, tearing from one realm to another. 

He tells them how, in every world, he found Zuko. 

“I don’t know how,” Sokka continues, “but Zuko is the trigger. He’s the one who sends me away.”

“Hm.” Aang taps his chin and looks curiously at the pair of them. “How strange.”

Zuko, on his part, looks half stunned and half taking it in stride. It probably explained why Sokka had been acting so unlike the version of himself that Zuko knows. 

“Yeah.” Sokka shifts awkwardly in place. He doesn’t know how much more he can say—he’s already told his story. “Do you know why this would happen?”

Aang keeps staring, evaluating Sokka like a puzzle to be solved. 

But it’s Zuko who speaks up. “You know, when I was young, my mother used to tell me stories. In some of them—and I mean, really ancient, classic ones—there would be people with soul bonds. People who were destined to be together, no matter their circumstances.” His voice is thick as molasses, and he meets Sokka’s eyes with warm determination. “Could that be true?”

Slowly, Aang shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Prince Zuko. The soulbond is just a story.”

Zuko sinks into himself. “Oh. That’s, uh, too bad.”

But Sokka doesn’t see it that way. Where’s the adventure if it’s all predestined? Isn’t part of love the willingness to dive into the unknown, the willingness to be hurt, to be vulnerable?

“That’s not a bad thing, Prince Zuko,” Aang says. “It may seem that way, but I promise you, it’s not. Love is a choice. Love is a choice you make, a choice to let go of hate. A choice to be better. It’s not an easy choice—it’s the hardest one most people will ever make. But each time someone wakes up and meets the world with love and kindness, the world is a little better, I believe.” Aang smiles and crowsfeet wrinkle around his eyes. 

When did he get so wise?

Well, maybe that’s not fair. Aang is always wise. But his words seem to hold more weight, now. Maybe it has to do with the fact that it’s harder to imagine this Aang pulling his robe over his head, or wearing a ridiculous disguise, or cracking a joke at Sokka’s expense. He’s still Aang, but he wears his years of experience like an old, familiar coat. 

Zuko nods, thoughtful.

“If I had to make a guess,” Aang says, “the two of you are connected all the same. Perhaps Prince Zuko has acted like the north star, guiding you home.”

Sokka thinks on it. “It hasn’t always worked, though. Not right at the start.”

“Love rarely works at first sight,” Aang says. “That doesn’t mean it’s any less powerful.”

Sokka looks at Zuko and Zuko looks back at him and his heart swells.  _ This. This is how it should be. _ But it’s not his. 

“I need you to send me home, Aang. Can you do that?”

“I think I can manage.” 

Sokka closes his eyes and nods. “And, uh, I don’t know if you’ll know this, but what’s been happening? When I leave?”

Aang frowns. “I can’t be certain.”

“Have I just been leaving Zuko alone in every world?” The thought of that pierces his heart with a stake of ice. 

“Perhaps.” Aang’s hand tightens around the end of his staff. “But the most likely answer is that you’ve left him with another ‘you’ in your place.”

_ No.  _ Sokka bites down on his lip. “That’s not exactly as comforting as you think it might be.”

“I’m aware. But you’ve both helped each other, I believe. Love and friendship, Sokka… they make us all better people.”

Sokka can only stand there, numb. Logically, he knows Aang is right. Love and friendship and care—they bring out the best in anyone, even in the darkest of times. Aang had been the one to teach him that in the first place. 

But it doesn’t make him feel any less awful about the fact that he’s disappeared, that he’s shared these moments with Zuko and then left him on his own to untangle those knots of emotion. 

“Are you ready to go home?”

“As ready as I can be.” He swallows. 

“Prince Zuko, then, if you don’t mind.” Aang gestures for Zuko to come closer. “Just wait for my signal.”

Sokka stands there, a foot away from Zuko. He’s so close that Sokka can make out the texture of his skin, that he can smell the polish on the armour, so close that the sigh of Zuko fills his world. 

Around them, the air swirls—an eddy of wind that obscures the rest of the world, leaving them in the eye of the storm. It is how it’s always been: him and Zuko. 

Zuko smiles sadly. “Have a safe trip,” he whispers. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’m not your Sokka. I shouldn’t have lied—I should’ve told you right away. I’m sorry.” 

“Hey—hey. You’re still Sokka. I’m still me.”

Around them, the air Aang bends rises to roar and drowns out the rest of the world. The gale strengthens; Sokka steadies himself against the gusts that threaten to knock him down. More than anything, he wants to grip Zuko’s hands and anchor himself to this world. 

“NOW!” Aang’s voice ripples above the cacophony of noise. 

Zuko and Sokka both reach for the other. They clasp the other’s wrist; they pull into a tight embrace against the spinning streams of air. 

" _I'm sorry,"_ Sokka whispers. " _I'm sorry for everything."_

“ _ Be safe, Sokka,” _ Zuko whispers back. 

And, with that, Sokka floats. 

  
  


* * *

Sokka lands in a half-melted bank of snow. 

It’s not as graceful as he hoped, but he’s never been this dizzy before. His head spins like the time Katara gave his sled a twist before pushing it down the hill. 

He rests his hand on his stomach, willing it to calm down, and groans.  _ A little warning would’ve been nice, Aang.  _

“What are you doing here,” a harsh voice orders.

Sokka snaps one eye open. 

Above him stands a girl, clearly Water Tribe. She’s about his age, if he had to guess, and her dark hair is cropped at her shoulders. A scowl knits itself deep across her features. Also—she’s jacked. Almost upsettingly so. Why can’t Sokka’s arms look like that? 

“What are you doing here?” she snaps once more. “You’re not welcome here.”

_ Is he home? _

Sokka sits up and glances around. Where the hell did he land himself? From the looks of it, he’s in a temple of some sort. Over the sloped roof, the jagged tops of mountains jut out in the distance. Earth Kingdom, most likely then. 

“I won’t ask again.”

Sokka rubs his face. “I’m just trying to get home,” he says honestly. “This is the Earth Kingdom, yeah?”

She doesn’t answer, she just narrows her gaze. With her hands on her hips like that, there’s something that eerily reminds Sokka of Katara. 

“Cool, thanks for the answer.” Sokka stands and hopes he doesn’t tilt back into the snowpike. He’s dressed for the weather, at least, with a light parka. The snow here seems to be mostly melted—the world is warming to spring. “I’ll just be on my way then.”

“No, no you won’t. Who are you? And how did you get here?”

Sokka stares at her. “I told you, I’m just trying to get home. I was lost.”

“But that doesn’t explain how you’re  _ here. _ ”

Sokka groans. “I’m leaving, alright? Don’t worry.” Sokka shrugs and waves her off and walks away. 

And a column of fire blazes in front of him. 

In his panic to step back, he trips on his feet, landing on his ass as the flames curl upwards into smoke. 

The girl stands over him once again. 

_ A firebender, then. _ Sokka rubs his lower back.  _ Always my luck. _

“You can’t just come in here and expect to walk away without consequence. Who are you?”

“I don’t have to answer that! I mean, who are  _ you? _ ”

At that, her face falls from its hardened expression. “You—you seriously don’t know?”

“No. Should I?”

“I’m Korra,” she says plainly as if that explains it all. 

Which, really, it doesn’t. At all. “Okay, then. Nice to meet you Korra—I’ll just be leaving now.”

As he tries to stand again, she holds out her arm to stop him. “I’m Korra… as in  _ Avatar Korra. _ ”

Sokka can’t hold in the laugh that escapes his throat. “Sure, ‘Korra’.” Briefly, it crosses his mind that maybe she’s telling the truth, maybe he’s in the wrong world once more. But it doesn’t feel that way. There’s something about this world that feels right. Something about the scent of cherry blossoms in the air and the colour of the sky and the way that the sun warms his skin tells him he can’t be anywhere but home.

“You don’t believe me.” 

“Aang is the Avatar, last time I checked.” 

She frowns and reaches out a hand to haul Sokka to his feet. “Did you hit your head?”

“No—” he taps his skull— “no more damage here than usual.”

The girl—Korra—raises an eyebrow at that. “What did you say your name was?”

She’s told him his, so Sokka doesn’t really see the point of holding it back anymore. Especially now that she doesn’t seem to be actively threatening her. “I’m Sokka.”

But her glare sharpens once more; her mouth thins to a slash. “Don’t joke about that—it’s not funny.”

“It’s not—that’s not a joke. That’s my name.” 

She looks at him in earnest. “Really?”

“Cross my heart.”

She looks to the sky as if she’s searching for guidance. “Then I think we need to go see Tenzin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine the way that Sokka and Zuko find each other and help each other to be kinda like Alan and Nadia in the last episode of Russian Doll


	9. Chapter 9

Sokka laces his fingers behind his head and stares at the ceiling. For the third time, he counts the number of wooden beams. Forty-six. 

Sokka sighs. Maybe he could get one-hundred-and-five next time to really make things interesting. It would make him question his sanity, but at least it would be interesting. 

He’s been in the room for the better part of two hours now. The woman, Korra, led him through the temple and nearly threw him inside. It’s better than a jail cell, Sokka will give it that. He lounges on the comfortable couch. In one corner is an overstuffed bookshelf and desk and on the far wall a window looks out over the rest of the temple and down toward the water. It must be someone’s office, he thinks. 

But whatever it was, the door evidently locks from the outside. 

Sokka tried it three times (and the window once) before resigning himself to the couch. 

He’s just about to start his count of the ceiling beams for the third time when the door rattles. Sokka snaps up, ready for a change of pace. 

When the door opens, Korra stands at the threshold. “Sokka?”

“Yeah?”

“This is who I wanted you to meet. This is Tenzin,” she says and steps inside the room. 

When she moves out of the way, a man appears behind her. He’s tall, probably at least Sokka’s height, if not taller, with warm orange and yellow robes, covered in a dark red cloak. His bushy brow furrows--his face is stone. There’s something on his head, too, something that Sokka can’t really make out. 

“Hi,” Sokka says, “look, I don’t mean to be rude but could you let me know where I am? I’m trying to get home.”

The man, Tenzin, steps closer. 

It wasn’t a trick of light that caught on his bare head. 

It’s an arrow. 

Tenzin is an airbender. 

The weight of it all sinks into Sokka like an anchor in his gut. In the last world he was in, there must’ve been other airbenders. He hadn’t seen any, but they had to have been there. 

There’s an airbender here. A real, living and breathing, airbender. Aang would be so happy. 

But he’s not home. 

The brief flush of joy sours; Sokka’s lungs constrict and his brain throbs against his skull. Where is he now? He’d been so certain this was his world--not just because he got here with Aang’s guidance. Something about this place felt  _ right _ deep in his bones. 

“Who are you?” Tenzin says, his voice gruff and harsh. 

“I  _ told you. _ I’m Sokka and I just want to go--”

“No.” He crosses his arms and stares down his nose at Sokka. The insisty of hsi glare makes Sokka want to hide in his shirt and shrink away. “Who put you up to this?”

“No one put me up to this!” Sokka throws his arms forward in exasperation. “Look--just get Aang or something. He can sort this out.”

Tenzin pales. His energy dissipates; it’s as if he’s seen a ghost. “Stop that.”

“Or maybe she--” Sokka points to Korra-- “can sort this out if she is who she claims to be.”

But Sokka’s suggestion doesn’t land. Tenzin turns on his heel and storms out the door, his cloak swishing behind him.

Korra gives Sokka a shrug and a glance of sympathy. “I’ll sort this out,” she says, “just stay put.”

The door slams behind her before Sokka can even answer. He sighs and sinks back into his place on the couch.  _ Stay put.  _ It’s not like he has any other choice. 

* * *

Another hour (at least) passes. Sokka hauled himself off the couch and leaned against the window frame, where he’s been for the past quarter-hour. He can’t make out much from the vantage point--the slope of the roof blocks him from seeing down to the courtyard--but he can, at least, watch the waves break and the clouds roll past in the sky. One looks a little bit like a turtle duck if he brings his right ear to his shoulder and closes his left eye. 

He’s looking for a shape in a wisp on the horizon when a loud clatter rings through the room, coming from the hallway. Sokka whips his head around, but the door doesn’t open. 

Quietly, he crosses the room and presses his ear to the wall. The sounds that come through are muffled and nonsensical, but there is definitely someone outside.

More than one person? Sokka closes his eyes and listens closer. There’s one--no, two?--voice(s) that sound like teenage girls. Someone says something in a way that strikes him distinctly as Katara-esque. A mini general giving an order. In response, someone else laughs. Sokka tries to figure out what they’re saying, but their words are shapeless. 

Until a phrase rings through with suprising clarity: “Stand aside, ladies. I’ve got this.” 

The door to the room flies inward. It collides with the far wall and a rain of splinters falls over the floor. Sokka can only blink. He hates to think about what would’ve happened if he’d been standing a few feet to the left. 

“Meelo,” someone hisses. “I said we had to be  _ discreet. _ ”

In the doorway stands a group of kids. Which, just… what? Sokka’s head hurt enough already. Well, kids and a teenager, but a young one. 

The girl can’t be much more than thirteen or fourteen. But she has  _ arrows.  _ Are they all airbenders too? 

They’re not wearing robes, at any rate--they’re dressed in some odd athletic suit. But they stand knit close together. The oldest girl is next to another girl who could be her twin, if it wasn’t for the fact she’s a smidge shorter and with grey eyes. In front of the two of them is a boy with thick eyebrows. Probably that Tenzin’s kid, which would explain a lot about the door. 

At the very back, clinging to the oldest’s leg, is a boy who can’t be more than four with wild brown hair that sticks out in every direction. 

“Woah,” says eyebrows. “Are you really Uncle Sokka?”

Sokka nearly chokes on his spit.  _ Uncle  _ Sokka? He’s fairly certain he’s no one’s Uncle. Unless Katara and Aang got  _ really  _ good at hiding things  _ really  _ fast. But even then, it makes no sense. 

But as Sokka stares at these kids, some long-rusty gear in his brain starts to turn. Brown hair. Grey eyes. Lopsided smiles.  _ Airbending.  _

Sokka blinks, his mind reeling. “I--I think I might be.”

* * *

From there, the day unravels into chaos. 

It’s the best he can expect.   
  


* * *

Tenzin doesn’t trust him. 

Sokka doesn’t blame him. 

He’d be  _ more  _ worried if he accepted without question that Sokka is really Sokka. Sokka, as in his mother’s brother. As in his uncle. As in Sokka,  _ the  _ Sokka, who’s been deceased for sixteen years.

Sokka takes a bite of the rice and wishes not for the first time that the airbenders would have some decent protein around. His stomach feels empty; his energy zapped away. 

Around the table, they all stare at Sokka as if he were a lit firework and they’re waiting for him to explode. 

Sokka sips his tea and tries to not shrink under their gazes. 

“We’re having a room made up for you,” Tenzin says. “You’re  _ not  _ to leave it until we figure out exactly what’s going on.”

* * *

Sokka slips out the first chance he gets. It’s not difficult, he only opens his window, slides down the slope of the roof, and climbs down the pillar into the courtyard. 

He doesn’t think he’ll leave—he’s on an island with no boat—but it’s nice to know where he stands. 

Across the dark bay, he can see lights twinkling away. A city, he thinks it must be. A city bigger than any he’s ever seen before. Even Ba Sing Se wasn’t so tall and shiny. 

He hugs his arms to his stomach and skirts along the shore of the small island. It’s a little cool and it probably would’ve been a smart choice to bring a coat of some description, but Sokka seriously doubts his ability to make smart choices consistently. He thinks he goes to the extremes—he either plans meticulously or jumps in headlong without thinking. He oscillates from planning as he did the day of the red sun to planning as he did with boiling rock. 

Untethered as he is, he’s been planning less and less and drifting more and more. 

Sokka sighs and looks to the sky, as if that would somehow hold an answer. 

But Sokka makes his way over a clump of rocks, a voice carries from the distance. He stops. 

Not far from him, in a pagoda at the end of a small pier, people are talking. 

_ Shit.  _ He doesn’t think they’ll throw him in jail or anything if they catch him out of his room, but Sokka’s really not in the mood to put that theory to the test. 

He turns on his feet, ready to make his way back up the rocky shore to the temple. 

He only makes it a few steps before a rough hand grabs him by the shoulder. “Tenzin told you to stay inside.”

Sokka cranes his head to see Korra standing behind him, a deep frown craved in her mouth. Behind her stands a woman even taller than her with a pointed chin, lips like a heart, and curled black hair. 

“I just needed to clear my head—I’m not trying to leave.”

Korra doesn’t look impressed. She pulls Sokka by the arm toward the temple. The other woman follows in her footsteps. 

“I’m Sokka, by the way.”

She eyes him. “Asami.”

Korra doesn’t let up; she keeps marching Sokka back to his rooms, despite his conversation. “You’re part of the new team Avatar?”

“I guess.”

He looks her up and down. “Fire or earth bender?”

“Neither.”

He smiles. “A non-bender then! We’ve got to stick together. What do you use? Suki and me are fan and sword.”

She looks vaguely amused, even though Korra’s face gives nothing away. “I have a glove that can deliver an electric shock.”

Sokka has never wanted to see anything more in his life. 

And, of course, Korra refuses to let him.

* * *

By the time Korra dumps Sokka back in his room, Sokka’s managed to tease out of the two of them that they’re dating. 

_ Good for them,  _ Sokka thinks. They’ve managed to get their feelings sorted much more easily than he ever has. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Katara whispers that everything is much easier if you can only express what you want. 

He wonders if she’s right. 

* * *

Sokka wakes up to someone shaking his shoulder. 

He squints to make out who is there and, in his haze of sleep, he thinks it’s Gran Gran at his bedside. 

And it all crashes down on him. Her loopies. Her smile. The crinkles at the edges of her eyes. 

“Katara,” he whispers. 

She pulls him close, balling his shirt in her hands. “Sokka.”

His eyes are hot and his face is wet and he presses his head into the crook of her neck. 

“He’s on his way, dear,” she says. 

Sokka nods. He doesn’t have to ask; she doesn’t have to clarify. They’ve always understood each other like so. 

* * *

Two days later, Zuko arrives on a dragon. 

A  _ dragon.  _ A real, living, fire-breathing dragon. 

Sokka stares on, searching for the right words. 

But when he sees Zuko slip off it’s back, any hope he had of forming a coherent thought vanishes from his mind. 

Zuko is old. 

Zuko’s hair is white. Wrinkles crease his forehead and the edges of his eye. His white beard is clipped in the same style that Iroh wears. 

Or, here, that Iroh wore. 

Sokka can’t breath. 

“Sokka,” Zuko murmurs. “It’s you.” His eyes are glassy. He presses his lips together. 

“I’m a little lost,” Sokka says. 

Zuko chuckles. “Only you could manage this.” 

Sokka brushes the back of his head. “It’s really just my luck.”

Zuko steps closer and smiles sadly. “It’s been too long.”

Sokka nods. It’s only been a few months since he last saw his Zuko—he can’t imagine the ache that years apart must bring. 

“You need to go home.”

“I do.”

Zuko nods. “Can you promise me something?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him. Don’t—don’t wait. Don’t waste your time together. I can be stubborn, I know, and a bit dense. But I’ll always listen to you.”

Sokka nods. His mouth feels dry. His lungs tight. “I promise.”

He steps forward and pulls Zuko into a tight hug. 

Zuko squeezes him back. 

And, yet again, Sokka floats. It’s like being back in the sea, it’s like waves pounding against his head, but this time he can see the shore ahead of him. 

* * *

Sokka lands in the middle of the town square in the south. He knocks into a vendor’s cart, spilling the contents over the street. 

As the vendor cries in despair, Sokka hauls himself to his feet. For the South, it’s warm and the villagers are all standing around in the lightest clothes they own. 

Not the dead of winter anymore, then. Sokka wipes the sweat from his forehead.  _ Is he home? _

Everyone looks on, as if they’ve seen a ghost. 

Finally, one young girl cries out: “Someone get Avatar Aang!”

And Sokka sinks into himself with relief; every defensive shield he’s raised peels away. 

He’s home. 

He knows it. 

* * *

Aang hugs Sokka so tight he can’t breathe. “I knew you’d find your way back,” he says. “It was just a matter of time.”

“I mean, I would’ve preferred  _ not  _ to go tumbling through worlds.”

“But you did! And you handled it so well!”

Sokka rolls his eyes and sinks back in his seat. Aang’s endless optimism would’ve gotten his nerves if he didn’t miss him so damn much. 

“So,” Sokka says, clearing his throat. “Um, have you heard anything from Zuko?”

Aang’s joy sours; his expression falters. “Oh.”

“Aang.”

“No one’s heard from Zuko in months. He’s stopped taking messages.”

Sokka swears. “When can we leave?”

“Sokka…”

“When can we leave? Tomorrow?”

Aang gives him a glare that holds more authority than it has any right to. “Sokka. I went to the Fire Nation two months ago. He refused to see me. Send a letter first, at the very least.”

Sokka nods along and plans to leave at dawn, with or without Aang. 

He’s come this far. He’s not stopping no


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to whoever can spot the Song of Achilles reference

Sokka tries. He really does. But he doesn’t leave at the crack of dawn. 

As it turns out, a canoe really isn’t an efficient method to cross an entire ocean. Or remotely safe.

He also hasn’t seen his family in months. None of them are too keen on him setting off once more. 

And, above all else, Sokka will admit he missed them too. It’s nice to sit with his dad and Gran Gran and Katara and Aang. It’s nice to have them shove plates of food toward him and insist he get his fill. He lets them fuss and chatter and wrap him in a blanket 

He  _ missed  _ them. He missed them like he was missing a part of himself. 

But, after five days of being home, he tells them all he needs to catch the next ship out of town. 

They understand; they expected as much. 

Sokka already sent a letter ahead of him—not that he expects an answer, based on what Aang was saying. 

He packs his bag and tosses it over his shoulder and catches a ride on the trading ship sailing to the Earth Kingdom. 

* * *

As the ship carves through the waves, Sokka stares at the sun. The heat soaks into his skin.  _ Come on,  _ he thinks.  _ Just a little faster.  _ He can’t have come all this way for nothing. 

* * *

At a port city in the Earth Kingdom, in the midst of the market’s chatters and shouts, he bargains his way onto a small vessel bound for Caldera. He promises he’ll cook, or swab the deck, or haul bags, or do whatever terrible job they shove his way as long as he can get on that ship. 

It was, perhaps, a miscalculation to assume it’d be so easy to get to the Fire Nation. 

But the merchant reluctantly agrees and Sokka hauls bags on board and, at dinner, shucks oysters and peels potatoes until his hands are raw. 

He doesn’t care. 

He’d do it a hundred times over. He’d do anything just to get to Zuko’s door. 

* * *

Looking at Caldera City, Sokka feels like he’s seeing it for the first time. The  actual first time he saw it, he didn’t exactly stop and revel in its beauty. 

But it  _ is  _ beautiful. 

The black rooftops gleam like polished lava rock. Fruit stands team with ripe apricots and fat cherries; coloured paper lanterns hang from strings criss-crossing the streets. Sokka feels like he did the first time he left the pole—like he’s 15 and realizing for the first time that the world is so much bigger and stranger and more beautiful than he ever could’ve imagined. 

Now he’s not only seen his own world, but he’s seen  _ worlds  _ outside his own. Cities with strange glass buildings that parted the clouds. Castles that moved across valleys. Nations secluded for hundreds of years.

Even in familiar settings, the people were different. They spoke different tongues, they dressed in different clothes, they worried about different problems. 

Despite it all, Sokka’s home. And his home world still holds beauty and mystery of its own.

He bolsters his confidence as he comes up on the palace gate. 

And the guards—the two men in dark uniforms with placid faces—don’t move. In their hands, they hold spears and swords sit on their belts. It’s hard to make out their exact expression behind the helmet. 

“I’m here to see the Fire Lord,” Sokka says, drawing himself up taller. After everything, here he is.  _ This is it.  _

The left guard lets out a dry laugh. Neither respond to Sokka; they keep their heads fixed straight ahead. 

“Uhh, so can I see Zuko? If you could just let me in…”

“The  _ Fire Lord  _ has no visitors scheduled to be arriving today,” the right guard says. His voice sounds like stones scraping together. 

“Okay, sure, that’s technically true, but can you let him know that Sokka is here? I think he’ll want to talk to me—“

“Look,” the left guard cuts in, “the Fire Lord hasn’t had an audience in over six months. He’s turned away masters and the Avatar himself. I doubt he’s gonna change his mind today, no matter how important you think you are.”

“But—“

“You can leave, or we can call for back up and you can spend the night in a cell. Your choice.”

Briefly, Sokka considers raising hell and letting them drag him to a cell—at least he’d be past the palace gate. 

But a voice that sounds a little too much like Katara for his own liking reminds him that,  _ no _ , going to jail isn’t a good idea.

Instead Sokka sighs. “Alright, alright.” He raises his hands. “You got me. Consider me out of your hair.”

Sokka turns on his heel and heads down the street back into the town. As he weaves through the crowd, he works out his plan. He’s come all this way. He’s not waiting any longer. 

(Besides, he really doesn’t have the coin to spare for a night in an inn. But that’s not the point.)

* * *

When darkness falls, Sokka dons his cloak and cuts through the streets of Caldera. Even in the dark, the late summer heat is sticky and oppressive and the last thing he really needs is to layer  _ more  _ clothing over his body. But he raises the hood and obscures his face and makes his way to the base of the palace walls. If he remembers correctly—and Sokka is fairly certain that he  _ does  _ remember correctly—the other side of the wall should take him to a patch of rose bushes behind the royal library. It should be empty this time of night (not that it is ever busy during the day).

Sokka throws the hooked rope over the edge. When it lands, he gives it an experimental tug—it seems to hold his weight.  


He wraps his hands around the thick and rough twine and braces his feet against the wall; he reaches up and strains and steps forward. 

Each inch feels like a mile. His muscles burn. His feet threaten to slip and send him spiralling down to the stone path below. 

Zuko has always been much better at this sort of thing. It’s nearly a joke, Sokka thinks—Zuko’s brilliant at stealth missions but hasn’t an ounce of strategic thinking. On the other hand, Sokka’s inability to slip around quietly might undo all of his planning. 

At least they might balance each other out. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ Sokka reaches the top of the wall. He swings his legs over, the way one might sit on an ostrich-horse, and sucks in a breath. Beads of sweat cling to his brow. 

As Sokka looks down, he realizes the palace wall is also deceptively high. He is behind the library, just as he planned, but the bushes at the base of the wall have way more thorns than the last time Sokka was here. Seriously. There’s no  _ way  _ they were that sharp looking before. 

He takes a steadying breath and reminds himself, whatever he does, to not look down.

His muscles burn and his palms are much too sweaty for this. For a terrifying second, Sokka’s certain he’ll slip, he’s certain that he’ll tumble down into the bushes.  _ Wouldn’t that be a way to make an entrance.  _

But he doesn’t. His feet find the packed dirt. His palms might be rubbed raw, but he’s inside the palace walls. And Zuko can’t be far away.   
  


* * *

There are too many guards in the hallways. Which, for as easy as it was to climb over the wall, Sokka figures is at least reassuring. Zuko is well protected, as long as the intruder doesn’t know the grounds 

But the guards don’t make his life any easier. If the ones at the gates in the middle of the day wouldn’t let him in, he doubts anyone will take kindly to him showing up in the night. 

Sokka takes to the rooftops instead. 

He isn’t built for it. 

Each step is horrifically unsteady. Sokka’s certain his ankle will wobble, his balance will tilt, the tile will crack. How did Zuko manage this? Sokka had seen him  _ run  _ with ease across sloped roofs. Sokka is nearly crawling and his stomach still rolls. 

Finally, he reaches the balcony that he remembers standing on a few years prior. Sokka grips the edge of the roof, slips down, and swings onto the platform. 

He’d like to pretend he lands gracefully, like a lemur-cat. 

He doesn’t. 

He rolls forward and stumbles into a chair that certainly wasn’t there the last time Sokka was here. The wood cracks as it collides with his knee and Sokka winces at the jolt of pain that sparks upward. “ _ Ah fuck.” _

He reaches down to his knee—not broken, he thinks, just sore. In the morning, he suspects there’ll be a nasty coloured bruise. Maybe he can find some willow bark paste to stop it from swelling—

The point of a blade presses against his throat. A sharp and light pressure, tenuously pricking his Adam’s apple. 

“Move and you’re dead.”

Sokka knows that voice. He’d know as he was dying; he’d know it any world. “Zuko,” he whispers.

“Get up _. _ ” Zuko’s voice is harsh; there’s no kind edge. 

Slowly, Sokka lifts himself up, his hands above his head in surrender. His knee protests as he moves. “Zuko,” he repeats, “ _ it’s me.” _

Zuko keeps the blade at his throat. Not a fibre of his muscle twitches.

In the moonlight, Sokka gets a good look at Zuko, his Zuko, for the first time in months and months. His hair is longer. His skin is more pale. It seems if he’s aged several years in a short span; as if something sucked the life out of his core. 

“Don’t move,” Zuko orders. 

Sokka does anyway. He moves slowly, showing Zuko he has nothing to fear. Sokka wraps his hands around the fabric of his hood and lowers it down, revealing his face. “Zuko. It’s me.”

Zuko’s sword clatters to the ground. His mouth parts. Clumsy, he steps back before he presses the heels of his palms over his eyes. “You’re not real,” he mutters, “you’re not real.”

Sokka raises his hand and takes a tentative step toward him. “It’s okay,” he whispers, “Zuko—I’m back now. It’s alright.”

Zuko swears and turns and pushes back into his room, his loose night robe billowing behind him. 

Sokka follows in his path. “Zuko! Wait!” He pushes through the door and steps into Zuko’s chambers. 

The chambers are a mess. Sokka’s never been the most organized when it comes to his living space—but this? It’s not just slightly out of order. The chambers seem as if they haven’t been cleaned in months: discarded clothes pile up on the floor, papers overflow the desk in the corner, plates and dishes from dinner are still stacked on the table. 

Zuko rounds on him. “You’re not real,” he repeats again. “You—you  _ died.  _ You’re a ghost.” He closes his eyes and bites his lip and shakes his head. “You’re a phantom.”

As Zuko tries to turn and flee once more, Sokka reaches out. He wraps his fingers around Zuko’s wrist, his skin cool and soft, his bones delicate. 

He doesn’t float. 

Sokka stays anchored to the world. 

“Zuko. It’s me.”

Sokka takes Zuko’s hand and it lifts it to his chest. He holds it over his chest, over is heart. “D’you feel that?”

Zuko blinks. His mouth parts, but he can’t seem to find words. 

“It’s me Zuko. I’m real. I promise.”

“Sokka,” he whispers back, his eyes glistening at the corners. “I thought—Aang told me—“ Zuko breathes out and his shoulders shake. 

“I’m alive. I swear. I mean, it was those fucking spirits again. They gave me a hell of trip—it’s been a journey coming home.” Sokka leans in, his face inches from Zuko’s. “But I’m home. I’m here.”

Sokka doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he presses his forehead to Zuko’s forehead. For a moment they stay like that—quiet and breathing, forehead to forehead, with Zuko’s hand on his chest. 

“What happened?”

Sokka shakes his head. “You first—what’s gone on.”

Zuko draws back, his mouth turned down in a frown. “I thought you were gone. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you withdrew?”

“What else was I supposed to do? Sokka, you don’t understand the pressure. I was  _ mourning  _ and the ministers were pressuring me to get married. I—I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know what else to do besides shut down besides shutting everyone out.”

Sokka pulls him close. Zuko buries his head into Sokka’s chest and, where his face rests, Sokka feels the flush of heat and damp tears. Sokka reaches up and tangles his hand through Zuko’s long strands of silky hair. “Hey, hey. I’m here now.”

“Don’t leave me again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sokka promises. “Not again. Not without you.”

Zuko stiffens in Sokka’s arms. “What are you saying?”

“Zuko…” A terrible thought splits through Sokka’s skull. His 21st birthday has come and gone. His ministers had wanted him matched. “You’re not getting married, are you?”

He shakes his head. “I held the ministers off for a while. Pushed it back a few months.”

Sokka melts with relief. “Good,” he says and swallows.  _ Why is he so nervous?  _ “Because—because when I was away, I got some advice. Good advice, I think, from a trusted source.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Sokka’s pulse quickens. Tired and disheveled as he is, Zuko is still beautiful. Moonlight catches on his cheekbones; his lips are as red as cherry flesh. “Zuko?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” 

Zuko draws in a sharp breath. “Sokka…”

“You don’t have to say anything. Not right now—I know it’s been a shock tonight. I know  _ I’ve  _ been a shock. Just think about it?”

He nods slowly and smiles, his eyes filling with life. “Of course.” 

For a moment they stay together in peace, arms around each other, drinking in the moment.

“What happened?” Zuko finally asks, breaking the heavy silent. 

“I have the wildest story to tell you,” Sokka whispers. “If you’ve got the time.”

They talk until the sun flushes over the horizon in the East. And then they talk some more. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left folks! More of an epilogue ish. Thanks for coming along for the ride!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who followed this story along! I usually am a planner, so this was a fun way to literally drift along. Thank you for the comments and support!   
> After this, I'm turning back to focus on "Honey You're Familiar" as well as another long one-shot that should be coming shortly.

Sometimes, when Sokka dreams, he imagines himself floating through worlds. Here is a world that is a burnt husk, a world that is only blackened earth and a pale sky and air thin as broth. Here is a world where stars are upside down—the swirls of light live in the water and the sky is an ocean. Here is a world that’s frozen over, a world where ice clings to volcanos and frost coats palm trees. 

The worlds don’t scare him; these are not nightmares. 

In the murkiness of it all, Sokka finds Zuko. He wraps his hand around his. And, once again, he skips home like a stone on a smooth pond. 

When he wakes, he isn’t adrift. He’s next to Zuko ( _ his Zuko).  _ No matter how many times it’s happened, there’s always a moment when he’s caught in the place between dreams and reality where Sokka fears that everything will curl up in the air like smoke and all that he’ll be left with is a handful of ashes. 

But that hasn’t happened yet. He doubts it will happen soon. Each day in his world, he feels a little more himself. Maybe all the parts of him, all the bits scattered over world after world, are coming home. 

When Sokka was young, he’d say that home was the building he lived in, the place he shared with his mom and dad and Katara. 

When Sokka grew up, when he learned about the war, he knew his home was the Southern Water Tribe. Everywhere that wasn’t home wasn’t his. Home was the cold sea that spanned to the horizon and the snowbanks and the lights that would dance across the sky and the trees, bare or in bloom. 

When he was a teen and watched the South Warriors sail away, he thought of it a little differently. Home was where he and his family were together. 

The way he thought of family changed too. Aang is his family (whether or not he and Katara ever decide to marry). The same went for Toph and Suki. 

The same goes for Zuko. 

Home is the place where they are together. 

* * *

One day, after Sokka’s spent nearly a month in the Fire Nation, learning to be with a Zuko who won’t disappear, Zuko asks him to hike down to the beach. 

The day is hot—as it always seems to be in the Fire Nation, no matter the time of year—and the sun scorches his neck as they make their way down the path carved on the volcano side. 

Zuko is quiet, even for him. He keeps his gaze focused ahead and his footing steady, a basket under his arm swinging with each step. 

“Everything alright?”

Zuko glances back and nods. “Just thinking.” 

“Anything you want to share?”

Zuko gives him a wan smile. “Not right now.”

For all the times that Sokka’s known Zuko, he still has the capacity for secrets. There’s something strange and comforting in that fact. 

Sokka turns the memories over in his head as they continue on down the trail and, eventually, find their way to the ocean. 

The beach Zuko leads him to isn’t far from the docks. Rough, coarse rocks mix in with the gritty sand. Sokka keeps his sandals on as they find a spot under the shade of a palm to set up their blanket. In the distance, a seagull finch calls and the smell of salt and brine from the docks wafts down toward them. 

“When I was a kid,” Zuko says, “Uncle used to take me here to look in the tidal pools.

“They’re strange, you know. It’s not just a leftover bit of the ocean. Each one is its own world full of sea stars and snails and weeds and shells. None of the two are the same.”

Sokka nods along. He might not have grown up looking in the pools, but he remembers stopping at beaches with Aang and Katara and searching for the strange things they could find along the way on their days off. “None are identical,” Sokka summarizes, “but you always know what you’re looking at.” 

“Exactly. Despite their differences, they’re all connected. All part of the same whole, even if they don’t know it.” 

Sokka turns his head skyward and drinks in the sun, his heartbeat quickening. What was Zuko trying to say? Sokka had told him the stories over tea and games of pia sho, over walks around the palace and afternoons at the markets. He’d spilled it all—every painful and beautiful world. 

Zuko clears his throat. “What I’m trying to say is that maybe we’re all connected in ways we can’t understand.”

“You’re starting to sound like Aang.”

Zuko playfully shoves his shoulder. “I mean it. Sokka… when I thought you were gone, I cut off the world. I pushed everyone out. I was so—so  _ angry _ at everything and everyone. But I was also angry at myself.” 

Zuko takes a deep breath and reaches for Sokka’s hand. “I was angry because I never told you how I felt. And I thought I’d never have the chance.

“I love you Sokka.”

Sokka reaches up and skims his fingers over Zuko’s jaw; he turns his head towards him and closes the distance between their lips. When he pulls back, Zuko’s eyelashes flutter, his face flushes red. The sun catches in both his golden eyes and in the strands of his dark hair; the light reflects back with a glimmer.

“I love you too,” Sokka says, “but you already knew that.” 

Zuko laughs—something that doesn’t happen often enough—and the sound rings in the air like a clear bell. “It’s more than that, though. I’m not a poet. I don’t have the words.” He meets Sokka’s eyes and Sokka feels him seeing him, feels Zuko looking at every part of him, body and soul. He doesn’t flinch away. Even as his nerves rise, Sokka doesn’t move. In all the worlds, there aren’t many that Sokka would trust fully and completely.

In all the worlds, Sokka could never hide himself from Zuko.

“Knowing you has changed me,” Zuko whispers. “You made me better. You  _ make  _ me better, every day.” 

Sokka holds Zuko’s hand—he’s his anchor, tethering him to this world. 

He’ll never let go. 


End file.
